


Everything is going to plan (and other lies)

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Obi-Wan Kenobi, Canon-Typical Violence, Courting Rituals, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, Found Families, Horrible Back Stories, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Hurt/Comfort, Jango has a competence kink, Jango hates everyone equally, Jango maybe hates Obi-Wan-Wan less than everyone else, M/M, No you can't keep a gundark as a pet, Obi-Wan Kenobi Gets a Hug, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, POV Multiple, Past Abuse, Politics, Qui-Gon-Gon Gets a Grip, Reluctant War Lord Obi-Wan-Wan, Shmi Skywalker Lives, Slavery, Slow Romance, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23206819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jedi. Slave. General. King.Obi-Wan has had - and rejected - a number of titles over the years.For some reason, people keep putting him in charge of shit.
Relationships: Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 361
Kudos: 1942





	1. Prologue - Qui-Gon

**Author's Note:**

> Another WIP. I KNOW, BUT WAIT!
> 
> One, I'm good for it, I promise! 
> 
> Two, Obi-Wan really deserves a nice slow burn romance in between all the ridiculous shite I usually throw at him.
> 
> Three, I have had the WORST few days ever and needed to take something that was SUPER painful and make it fluffy and sweet and vaguely homicidal. 
> 
> Four, Jango doesn't get enough love in my fics. Or chances to stab people. Both of these things needed fixing.
> 
> The summary for this fic was very nearly 'Obi-Wan just wants to nap with his grumpy boyfriend but people keep expecting him to save the galaxy'.

Of all the people to be sent to greet Qui-Gon and the Queen’s Handmaiden, a small, wide-eyed child somehow falls at the bottom of the potential list. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised: the Hutts lost control of Tatooine to an army of child slaves so it makes sense many of them would be part of the newly formed government.

Qui-Gon uses the word ‘government’ lightly. An army has risen up, taken power and held it while multiple - and violent - attempts have been made to take it back. There have been no elections as yet, even three years after the uprising, and while the planet’s leader might not claim any fancy titles, he is, for all intents and purposes, a King.

A King who has done the impossible, and now holds court in the rebuilt ruins of Gardulla the Hutt's palace. Qui-Gon's spent some time enduring the questionable hospitality of the Hutts before; the decore here is a lot less depressing. Brightly colored banners hang on the walls and while there's a lot of blaster power on display it at least appears as though everyone is equally armed to the teeth. 

Including the little boy who beams up at them toothily. “Hi, are you a Jedi? I’m Anakin Skywalker, who are you? You’re not working with the Watch are you, ‘cos if you are you’re gonna get stabbed a lot and that’d be sad ‘cos Jedis are cool and - oh - you’re _pretty_...” A proper look at Padmé does what a lack of oxygen has failed and brings the child to a stunned silence. Qui-Gon hides a smile; Padmé does no such thing, warmth lighting her face with kindness.

“Hello Anakin, I’m Padmé. This is my companion -” she trails off and leaves Qui-Gon to introduce himself. Sensible girl. He hasn’t planned on revealing himself as a Jedi. At least not yet.

“Qui-Gon Jinn,” he says, nodding a greeting at the boy. “And what makes you think I am a Jedi?”

Anakin shrugs. “Ben said so.”

“And Ben is?” Padmé asks. She looks around but no one steps forward at the name. 

Anakin shrugs again, more dramatically this time. “Ben is just Ben. He’s the best.”

Qui-Gon takes that to mean that Ben is their leader. An unremarkable name. Simple and common. Perhaps that’s part of his appeal?

“Perhaps Ben is a Jedi himself?” Qui-Gon smiles, “If he can make predictions like that.”

He’s not expecting Anakin to nod enthusiastically. “He used to be!”

Time has done nothing to soften the edges of the pain that is so quick to wrap sharp fingers around his heart. It’s not a new sensation, not after all these years, and it’s a lesson slowly learned for Qui-Gon: hope is the most devastatingly cruel of all things. Every chance encounter, every potential lead, each day that might bring him to his Padawan, each one a painful lesson in futility. After twelve years he’s stopped begging the Force to spare Obi-Wan’s life; now he begs only for him to find peace.

“And now he rules a planet,” Padmé chuckles. “Quite the career shift.”

“Can we please speak to him?” Qui-Gon asks. He shelves that old pain for the task at hand. He’s spent more than a decade looking for his missing child; he’s not going to find him _by accident._

 _“_ Sure,” Anakin says. “You just gotta wait until the guys in the cool armor leave.”

“Anakin!” The soft scolding of a dark-haired young woman spins Anakin around in giddy excitement. 

“Mom! Mom! Guess what! This guy is a Jedi too! Like Ben!” He turns back from his mother and blinks up earnestly through a fringe of soft blonde hair. “Ben said I might’ve been a Jedi if I’d not been born on the Outer Rim,” he announces. “He’s taught me to meditate and everything. I’m not very good at it though,” he admits with a conspiratorial, disappointed whisper.

“Neither was I when I was your age,” Qui-Gon admits. “I drove my Master to despair.” A small half-truth. He’d been a few years older than Anakin when taken as Dooku’s Padawan.

He realizes his misstep a moment later. Anakin’s expression turns to thunder and the air around him sparks with anger. “We don’t use _that_ word here,” he growls. “There are no Masters. Is that why you’re here? To take Ben away? To make him _your slave again?”_

Qui-Gon looks to the boy’s mother for direction, not wanting to frighten him but equally aware that one so young should not have that much power - and rage - at their disposal. The woman is gone though, so Qui-Gon sinks down to one knee, his hands raised unthreateningly, aware of how intimidating he can be.

“Peace, young one, I mean no harm to you or to your friend.”

“You can’t take him!” Anakin cries in distress, his hands clenching into fists. “He’s ours!”

“Anakin, that’s enough.”

Anakin’s mother is back. She’s brought a young man with her, his shaggy copper hair hanging around his face, half pulled back into the messy braid Qui-Gon has seen many slaves wear over the years. He’s not wearing armor or carrying a weapon - foolish in a place as dangerous as this - and his sandy-colored clothing is neatly kept, if visibly worn and patched.

His eyes, bright and blue - ones that have haunted every moment of Qui-Gon’s sleep for twelve years - are narrowed in what looks like the start of a headache.

Qui-Gon can’t breathe.

Obi-Wan opens his arms and lets Anakin run into them, his anger dissipating the second he’s wrapped up in a secure embrace. “Find your center,” Obi-Wan speaks gently to the boy before raising those familiar eyes to Qui-Gon. “You’ve been on the planet for five minutes and already you’re upsetting the locals. That’s got to be some kind of record, hasn’t it?”

Qui-Gon can’t _speak_.

“He’s going to take you away,” Anakin says, pressing his face against Obi-Wan’s stomach.

“Oh Ani,” Obi-Wan sighs. “You know I’m not going anywhere.” He runs a hand over the boy’s golden hair, his expression soft with affection. “Why don’t you and your mother go inside? It’s nearly time for third meal and someone needs to make sure Bessan doesn’t steal all the sweet rolls.”

It’s the right thing to say: Anakin brightens and unfastens his arms from Obi-Wan’s waist.

He curls his fingers around his mother’s and heads for the door, but not before shooting Qui-Gon a poisonous look over his shoulder. “If you hurt him I’m telling Jango,” he threatens. “He’ll rip your arms off and _beat_ you with them.” And with that, the door slides silently closed.

Obi-Wan sighs, and it’s the same dramatic, put-upon sigh he always made when he thought Qui-Gon wasn’t looking and he was deeply unhappy with their orders. The old familiarity of it slices him to the bone.

“I’d say he has an overactive imagination, but Jango has actually done that before, so...” he makes a helpless little shrug, then runs his hand through his hair, dislodging several wayward strands. He’s twelve years older, his small, sweet face hardened and matured into high cheekbones and a generous mouth. The gangly, awkward skinniness of youth has grown into the comfortable, lithe elegance of a fighter - or a dancer - and though he’s markedly changed, he’s still so very clearly _his_ Obi-Wan that there’s no fighting the tears that fill his eyes.

“ _Obi-Wan_ ,” he chokes, taking several rapid steps forward, thinking of nothing but the need to pull his lost child into his arms and hold him safe. A part of Qui-Gon has been missing for so long and now it’s _here_. The Force clearly _does_ have a sense of humor.

“Ben,” Obi-Wan stresses, side-stepping in avoidance of Qui-Gon’s embrace. “My name is Ben.”

Qui-Gon freezes, hands awkwardly raised, “But you _are_...” He’s not wrong. He can’t be. The Force wouldn’t be so cruel.

Obi-Wan’s... Ben’s.... expression twists into a frown, but then he nods. “A long time ago. Not anymore.”

A long time ago, he says. And so much has happened in those years, at least for Qui-Gon, and he’s not the leader of a slave rebellion and ruler of a planet.

The thought brings a resounding flinch. Obi-Wan was a slave. His bright, beautiful, kind little boy was taken by slavers and sold as someone’s property. Qui-Gon had tracked down the vile creatures who kidnapped him; he knows exactly how much a young Jedi Padawan goes for on the black market.

And now he’s here, no bonds, no leash, tall and proud and unbroken.

Qui-Gon drops his arms and takes a respectful step back. “Of course. Forgive me.”

Surprises flashes in Ben’s eyes before they narrow in consideration. “I assume you’re here to trade for parts? I don’t have a T14 Hyperdrive Generator on hand, but give me a day and I’ll see what I can do.”

Padmé startles. “How do you know what we need?”

Ben flashes her a grin, wide and cheeky. Qui-Gon holds his pain at seeing it tightly to his heart. Those smiles were never for him. The ones he received were small and shy, hopeful. Qui-Gon never earned what Ben so easily gives to the young Handmaiden.

And of course, she smiles back, even suspicious: Ben’s a handsome man.

“I’m currently at war,” he says wryly. “There are twelve million people who all count on me knowing exactly what’s happening on this planet.”

“We can pay you,” Qui-Gon offers, desperate to help and clumsy with the attempt. “We have credits.”

“Republic Credits don’t mean kark out here,” Obi-Wan shakes his head. “No cost. Consider it an incentive to leave. Last thing I need right now is more trouble, and you’re nothing if not the harbinger of trouble, Qui-Gon Jinn.” There’s something sharp there, barely hidden and glinting in the darkness.

“Then maybe we can help you?” Padmé offers, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension. “Naboo has always had a strong humanitarian aid program. Once we deal with the Trade Federation we can-”

“No offense, lady,” Ben says, “but Naboo can’t handle a blockade by a commerce guild, so I doubt you’re gonna want to dive into a fight that involves three sides of the Spice Triangle, a Mandalorian death cult and the Haxion Brood.”

Padmé blinks, reeling.

No one wants to pick that kind of fight. No one sane at least. Qui-Gon isn’t sure if he’s more proud or horrified.

“Maybe the Senate...” she offers weakly.

Ben outright laughs. “Thanks,” he says, and seems to be genuine, “but I’m fairly sure the Senate is bankrolling half these sleemos.”

“We must be able to do something,” Padmé huffs, chewing on her bottom lip in a way that makes it clear she’s a lot younger than even Qui-Gon has estimated. The gears are turning in her head. She wants to help. _Qui-Gon_ wants to help.

No. Qui-Gon wants to drag Obi-Wan back to the ship and take him safely home to the Temple.

The Temple... Yoda will be so relieved. They all will. Obi-Wan’s loss is an open wound for all in the Order.

“Come and have something to eat,” Obi-Wan... _Ben_ says, gesturing to the door. “I’ll speak to my people and in the meantime, you can rest easy. The planet is dangerous, but these walls are safe.” He hesitates, then adds, “Maybe give the grumpy Mandalorian a wide berth? He really doesn’t like Jedi.”

“You’re a Jedi,” Qui-Gon says softly - brokenly, if only in his heart.

Ben snorts and rolls his eyes. There’s no bitterness or anger in his expression, and maybe that what makes it hurt the most when he says, “Well now, we both know _that’s_ not true.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely response to the first chapter!
> 
> Now we have a little Jango POV. Be warned. He's either the Softest or the Most Stabby and doesn't really have a middle setting, so... :D

It’s been twelve years, and Jango still rarely wakes before Ben. They’re both light sleepers and can be called on to forgo rest entirely when necessary, but while Jango needs a good five or six hours if he’s to make it through the day without mortally wounding someone, Ben has the entirely unnatural ability to be bright-eyed and cheerful no matter how little he sleeps, so long as he’s allotted time for a twenty-minute meditation.

Most days, Jango allows himself the indulgence of lounging in their bed while Ben sits quietly in the warm morning light. It’s a privilege he knows he’s earned. Or at the very least, purchased with copious amounts of blood.

Today, Ben is up even earlier than usual. The twin suns are only starting to spill across the floor, warming the edge of their private space and casting a pale glow across freckled shoulders. Ben is leaning on the edge of the balcony that overlooks the main hall, sleep pants low on his hips and his meditation mat rolled up and waiting to be stowed away for another day.

The balcony is a concession for all of them. Jango’s spent years sleeping with the sounds of other people around him and can’t settle without those familiar noises; Ben likes the illusion of privacy, and they both need to be close to their people. And the people need to be close to Ben. They rest easier, knowing he is cloistered at their heart; it makes the headaches he gives them all during the day about as tolerable as is possible.

They don’t actually have a _bed,_ as such. Jango can’t remember ever sleeping in a bed, though he knows he must’ve as an _adiik_ , but he can’t deny the luxury of pillows and a handmade blanket is something they both enjoy. Ben’s more than half tooka and can curl up and sleep anywhere, but Jango can at least give him this.

Slipping out from under the blanket, he rolls the stiffness of sleep from his shoulders and silently walks the few feet to Ben’s side.

There’s another, significant, benefit to having this small, secluded space to themselves, and that’s this.

After years spent in slavery, his culture and identity ripped from him and only dangled back in selective dregs for the amusement of his captors, Jango’s embraced the freedom to rediscover all that he’s lost. Outside of this space, he will never remove his _beskar'gam._ His _buy'ce_ is never removed in company and that is respected, honored even, by those they are closest to. Having this private space means that Ben can, as ever, be the exception. The one and only person who gets to see him.

He slips his hands around Ben’s waist and leans in to rest his chin on his shoulder. They’re a similar height and Ben doesn’t jump at the contact, just presses back against Jango’s chest and touches their heads together.

Below them, the first of their makeshift family are starting to rise. It’s early, but the kitchens will soon be bustling with life as the fort wakes and the day begins. Everyone here was once a slave and no one is forced or expected to do a job they don’t wish to do, but there are wide swathes of agreement that some exceptions should be made. If, for example, Ben wakes up with the overwhelming urge to leave his current role to become a chef, he is to be gently and repeatedly reminded of the time he nearly killed them all with undercooked _agol_.

“Did I wake you?” Ben asks him softly, his fingers lightly tracing the rise and fall of Jango’s knuckles where they rest against his stomach.

Not quite awake, but quickly heading in that direction, Jango presses an absent kiss to his shoulder. “No. You’re up early again. That dream?”

Ben hums a soft sound of agreement, relaxed and calm. “You’d think I’d know what it means by now.”

“Give it time,” Jango says. Ben has had cryptic dreams for as long as they’ve known each other and he’s always figured them out eventually. They’re half the reason they’ve even made it this far, and more than half the reason many of the Free look at him with something close to worship in their eyes. “You’ll get there.”

“So much faith in me,” Ben whispers. He curls their fingers together and squeezes them, before dropping his hand and turning in the circle of Jango’s arms. “Your hair is getting long,” he muses, reaching up to play with one of the long black curls that brushes his shoulder.

“You’ll have to braid it for me again.” Ben's spent a number of patient evenings sat with Bala and Shmi, watching the women twist careful braids with their fingers. He karked it up the first few times he tried with Jango, who thinks he can forgive him any mishap so long as he’s running strong fingers across his scalp. “Yours might be beyond salvation, though.”

Ben pulls a face and shoves wayward copper strands back in annoyance.

Jango hadn’t been allowed to grow his hair long as a slave; it ruined the ‘proper Mando aesthetic’ the ignorant _shabuir_ who owned them was so keen to replicate. Ben hadn’t been allowed to cut his at all.

“Remind me to shave it all off again,” he grumbles. Privately, Jango will mourn the loss of those soft russet waves, but if Ben wants them gone he’ll find him the razor himself.

“And then you’ll look fifteen,” Jango snorts. “Our sweet, baby faced _sen’ika_ \- umph-” Ben pokes him in the ribs. Hard. 

“I’ll grow a beard,” Ben threatens. “A very proper, distinguished beard.”

“And a bald head.”

“It’ll be respectable.”

“Not a single kriffing thing about any of us is respectable, _venku.”_

 _“_ Ain’t that the truth, _”_ Ben laughs. His palms are warm when they cup Jango’s jaw, his thumbs soft and hypnotically smooth as they brush the curve of his cheekbones, and his eyes the same fathomless blue as a clear spring morning. He is and always has been the one bright, good thing in Jango’s life, and the fact that this is okay, that they can do this, that he can _kiss_ Ben now is...

“ _Pleasedon’tbenaked!”_ They get a split second’s warning before Anakin Skywalker bounds up the stairs and onto the balcony, both hands over his eyes. It’s partially in fear of seeing a private moment between two adults, but mostly because Ben will scold him far more for intruding on Jango while he’s out of armor than he will for anything else.

Denied his kiss, Jango dives behind the small privacy screen by the window and curses his way into his body glove.

“Sorry!” Anakin says, peeking through his fingers to check the coast is clear. “But you said someone _had_ to tell you if the proximity alarms went off and they’ve totally gone off, so-” Jango can get himself assembled in minutes, which is enough time for Ben to coax more information from the hyperactive nine-year old. “Bala says its a Republic cruiser. A shiny one.”

Jango doesn’t need to see Ben to know what kind of reaction that will provoke. They’ve both been waiting for the day the Republic start to stick their nose into business that has nothing to do with them.

He comes out from behind the privacy screen fully encased in his armor, blaster clipped into his holster. Ben’s pulled on his worn leather boots and wrapped on a simple tunic. There was a time when he’d been adorned with a King’s ransom of jewels, but he’s never looked more beautiful to Jango than he does in these simple, well-worn clothes.

“Alright kid, I’m on it.” He claps a hand on Anakin’s shoulder and chuckles at the excitement in his wide eyes. The boy drives him crazy on a good day, but his youthful exuberance and bright innocence does more good for Jango’s heart than he’s willing to admit. “You make sure Ben has his breakfast and sees Healer Adein.”

Anakin salutes him. “Sir! Yes sir!” Then scampers off down the stairs, calling for his mother and waking the lucky few who had managed to sleep through his arrival.

“Sure we can’t feed him to a sarlac?” Ben doesn’t look impressed. “A joke! Although he _did_ rob me of my morning kiss...”

Ben shakes his head, takes Jango’s _buy'ce_ in his hands _,_ and bumps their foreheads together lightly. “That’ll have to do you until tonight,” he says. “Be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

“You’re never careful.”

“I’m more careful than you.”

“That’s not hard.” They stop their teasing at the arrival of the old Twi’lek Healer. Adein smiles tiredly, dark circles around his eyes. They have far too few Healers to go around and the most talented of them are in heavy demand. Adein is the only one Jango trusts with Ben. “Good morning. Forgive the intrusion, but I heard young Anakin -”

“Who didn’t?” Jango grumbles.

Ben gives him a little push towards the stairs. He’s already started to roll his sleeve up when Jango turns back for a final look.

“Go,” Ben laughs. “Try not to kill our new guests until we know why they’re here?”

Jango grunts. He’ll make no such promise.

He’s several steps down when he hears Adein. “How are you feeling today, Ben? Was yesterday’s dose sufficient?”

He doesn’t wait to hear Ben’s answer; he already knows it’ll be a lie.

* * *

It’s several hours later when Jango returns. He’s sent word back to the Fort already, and two scouts to follow the new arrivals into town. He’d wanted to know more, sneaking on to the ship stranded several miles into the wastes and finding it woefully unprotected. Two pilots, a handful of volunteer security and a gaggle of well-armed but fraught teenage girls. If it was a trap, it was certainly a new one, and by default Jango is wary.

The ship is now under watch by Bala and her squad, and he’ll know the second something changes.

Until then, he’s back home to do his job.

All of the Free have roles. His role is Head of Security. More specifically, it’s his job to keep Ben alive. Officially, he has ten men to assist in that role. Unofficially, it’s closer to a hundred. So Jango’s poached a few key players; what Ben doesn’t know can’t royally krif him off.

He’s heading to the main hall when a soft voice calls for his attention.

Standing in a doorway, Shmi Skywalker silently beckons him over. “One of our guests is a Jedi,” she warns. “Ben knows him.”

Jango nods his thanks.

This is precisely why he didn’t promise Ben he wouldn’t kill anyone. He doesn’t break his promises.

He swore at Galidraan that he’ll never again meet a Jedi and not kill them.

Ben is no exception; Ben is no Jedi. They abandoned and betrayed him. A thirteen-year-old boy kicked from their precious order for the crime of wanting to save dying children.

But this one?

This one has no excuse. This one he _is_ going to kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> adiik - child  
> beskar'gam - armor  
> buy'ce - helmet  
> agol - meat  
> shabuir - extreme insult. Jerk, but way grumpier  
> sen’ika - little bird (to be used in public at own risk :D)  
> venku - roughly translates to my hope (affectionate)


	3. Chapter 3

Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan...

It’s been a long, long time since he’s heard that name. He’s not ashamed of it, isn’t trying to hide who - or what - he was, but he can’t claim to be Obi-Wan Kenobi any more than he can claim to be a Jedi. That life and the boy he once was died long ago. The most Ben feels for him now is sadness and perhaps a small amount of grief for a future the boy never got to experience.

He’s been Ben for twelve years. Almost as long as he was Obi-Wan. In a few short months, it will be longer.

He no longer dreams of being Obi-Wan, of being rescued, of going home, back to his friends and the safety of the Temple.

Now, he dreams of troop maneuvers, of food rations and security rotations and the millions of faces that turn to him like flowers to the sun and expect him to have his shit together at all times.

He also dreams of a man cloaked in black - of lightening and of fire - and of a wielding a weapon he hasn’t held since giving it back to his first Master.

Unlike little Anakin, Ben has the experience and maturity to recognize the absolute disconnect between the Jedi’s honorific of a learned elder, and the title of authority and abuse used beyond the Republic. He’s been outside of the Temple long enough to know that many consider the Jedi to be little better than the beings who buy sentient beings like cattle. Having been on both sides of the equation now, he’ll happily point out the differences.

At worst, Qui-Gon was dispassionate and distracted, two qualities Ben would’ve cherished in the men who later came to own him.

Of course, he’s neither of those things right now.

Ben has led him and his young companion into the large communal space the Free use for meals and directed them to the closest serving station. Shmi manages the fort and has since they carted the last of the bodies out the door. She’s kind and infinitely gentle, and she runs a tight ship. Ben is smart enough to do as she tells him to and he thinks Jango is privately terrified of her.

“Shmi, this is Qui-Gon Jinn and Padmé,” Ben introduces them. There’s no sign of Anakin, which means the little terror will likely be on the hunt for Jango, but the hall is steadily filling as workers take their breaks. “Can you ask one of the girls to make sure they have enough to eat and drink? I need to have a word with Keldir before he heads back to Mos Eisley or I’d do it myself.”

“Please,” Qui-Gon says, holding up a hand as if to spare them the trouble of feeding them, “we don’t wish to impose.”

Ben bites back a grin as Shmi straightens and meets the Jedi’s gaze in a way she would never have dared to three years ago. “We might not look like much, Sir Jedi,” she says firmly, “but we can feed ourselves and our guests well enough.”

Qui-Gon’s mouth twitches in an old, familiar way that makes Ben ache. “Of course. I did not mean to offend.”

“Eat,” Ben instructs. “I’ll be back shortly.”

He leaves them in Shmi’s capable hands and feels Qui-Gon’s eyes on his back all the way to the far doors.

To think, he once would have traded anything to be the center of Qui-Gon’s attention.

Keldir heads up acquisitions, bridging the gap between Quartermaster and smuggler in a way that Ben does his best to stay out of. They have a very ‘if you don’t ask I won’t have to lie’ kind of relationship that only really works because Keldir _does_ tell Jango. He gets to keep the illusion that he’s sparing Ben the dirtier details, Ben has the reassurance that he’ll be able to step in and either help or divert Keldir’s efforts when necessary, and Jango gets to satisfy his painfully anxious need to try control everything.

So it’s no surprise that Keldir knows what he’s after before Ben even opens his mouth.

Occupying one of the higher turrets in the monstrous but practical building, Ben has to pick his way over stolen contraband and scrap just to find Keldir buried in the guts of a speeder. He’s in the middle of stripping it for parts, as are several others around him, so Ben waits patiently until neither of them risks burns from the machinery.

“I’ll have it for you tomorrow,” Keldir shouts over the noise, not bothering to surface from his work. Ben smiles to himself, pleased his confidence in them will pay off. “Gotta guy bringing it in on the morning Tech run. T14... not an easy model to stock you know. Could make a lot outta selling it for parts.”

“That’s no way to show our hospitality, Kel,” Ben scolds him.

Keldir snorts and hauls himself out of the engine. Two pairs of goggles protect his four eyes, one of which is fixed on the doorway, constantly on edge no matter what he’s doing. “You can save those fancy manners for people who give a krif,” he chuckles darkly. “You talk to Bala today?”

“No,” Ben frowns, “should I?” Keldir shrugs his six arms non-committal and Ben files the information away for later action. Bala is hot-tempered and her dial is nearly always turned up to maximum, but she’s never hesitated to reach out when struggling. She’s actually one of the more well adjusted of the Free, recognizing her anger and finding an outlet when it becomes too much. More often than not she and Jango’ll kick each other up and down the courtyard for a few hours and they’ll both consider it a win.

“She just came out with some shite last night is all. Got all philosophical like. I think she’s got a thing for one of the spice smugglers in town.”

“Ah,” Ben realizes. “Of course. I’ll speak to her.”

Keldir brightens. “Then you’ll have your part by morning.”

“I thought I already was?”

Flushing, Keldadjusts his goggles. “Maybe. _If_ you talk to her.” He looks lost for a moment and Ben understands the helplessness that comes with watching a loved one struggle and having no idea how to help.

He reaches over and gently pats Keldir’s shoulder. “My friend, I need to teach you the art of negotiation.”

“I negotiate shit all the time!”

“You threaten. And blackmail.”

“And bribe,” Keldir adds helpfully. “We’ve got the resources for me to do that now.”

“Outstanding,” Ben says dryly. “Who knew we could measure our success on such a scale?”

He’s shooed out of the workspace by multiple hands, his comment not dignified with a response. Chuckling as he makes his way down the stairs, he spares a moment to smile and nod at each person he passes. They all respond, some of them smiling back, many of them not. Some avert their eyes, and those hurt the most. It’s been three years but some habits will take a lifetime to break.

Back in the hall, Shmi hands him a small bowl of tuber soup and a neat little package of wrapped food he’ll take to Jango. She always packs them a little more than Jango needs, which he knows is her sneaky way of making sure Ben actually eats as much as he is supposed to. Nine years of starvation rations leave an impact.

Tucking their little picnic under his arm, Ben takes a seat beside Padmé on one of the benches. Both she and Qui-Gon are being actively engaged in conversation by a few of Jango’s scouts, something done out of suspicion, not kindness, but they all fall silent when Ben joins them. “Your part will be here in the morning. Do you need someone to help you install it, or will you be alright?”

“Our pilots can do that,” Padme nods. “Thank you. I don’t know what we’d’ve done if you hadn’t helped us.”

“You’re certainly easier to negotiate with than the Hutts,” Qui-Gon says, a tease that’s softer than the words imply.

One of the scots, a teenage Twi’lek named Chi, scoffs and shakes her head. “That’s what they thought, too.” More people have been listening in than Ben realizes and a resounding cheer rises through the room. Chi, like many of the Free housed here, had been slaves under the Hutts for years before the likes of Ben and Jango arrived on the planet. You’d be hard-pressed to find a single one with anything kind to say about them.

“How _did_ you beat the Hutts?” Padmé asks curiously. She and Chi are probably the same age. He wonders if she’s seen half the horrors that Chi has.

“With a rock,” Chi says gleefully. Ben shakes his head once and she falls silent. “Sorry, Ben,” she says, her shoulders slumping and her eyes lowering remorsefully.

He doesn’t want to upset her so nudges her boot under the table. “Don’t be sorry,” he says, “it’s just not a suitable conversation for the table.”

The human next to Chi starts to laugh and throws an arm around her shoulders as he winks at Padmé. “Ben’s been trying to teach us manners for years now,” he grins, picking up a long-standing joke with the hope that it will cheer Chi up.

Guiltily, Ben joins in. He’s not even sure _why_ he wanted her not to tell them that particular story. It’s not as if it - and worse - aren’t common knowledge on Tatooine. “And failing.”

“Not all of us make words pretty,” he shrugs.

“I didn’t think you could even string a sentence together, Hewi, let alone strive for anything remotely resembling eloquence.” He lets an accent that’s softened with years of disuse sharpen to the crisp tones of his youth, just to mess with them. Across the table, Qui-Jon flinches minutely.

Ben adamantly doesn’t make eye contact.

Chi snorts and Hewi puts a hand to his chest in mock offense. Whatever response he makes, though, is lost in the silent narrowing of Ben’s focus.

Jango has entered the room. There’s no world in which he will ever _not_ feel Jango’s presence, even without the Force, and he doesn’t need any special ability to read his intent.

When dealing with someone who lives in full body armor, you learn to read the way they stand, the way they walk. Out of armor, Jango moves silently, gracefully even. In his armor, he moves in a way that is designed to project menace. That’s always been their way, right from the start. If someone is focused on the walking threat that is Jango in full armor, they’re not paying attention to quiet, unarmed, harmless little Ben beside him.

Right now, that menace is dialed up to maximum.

So he knows they have a Jedi in their midst.

Equally, he can’t yet know who this particular Jedi is to Ben; he’d have his blaster out already if he did.

That gives him time.

Ben moves swiftly from the table and into Jango’s path. “ _Udesiir_ ,” he breathes, his palm coming to rest over Jango’s heart. “ _Udesiir, kar’ta.”_

He doesn’t know Qui-Gon well enough to know if the man speaks Mando’a, and finds he doesn’t much care if he does. Jango _is_ his heart and all the stars in the sky and Ben will never be ashamed of that.

No one else can do what he’s doing. He knows that, knows the power he has over Jango and swears never to abuse it. “Please,” he breathes, switching to a language he _knows_ Qui-Gon won’t speak, one that is uniquely used by the Free. “Let it go.”

“How can you ask me that?”

“You _know_ how.”

Of course he does. He knows the lines Ben draws in the sand as well as Ben knows the triggers for his deepest wounds. It’s rare that the two dissect each other.

Another time, another _man_ , and Ben might worry.

Not with Jango. He knows the place he holds in the man’s heart and doesn’t doubt it.

Breath by careful breath, the hatred eases from his posture. “You’re too soft, _venku_.”

Ben relaxes, smiling. “So I’ve been told.” He takes Jango’s hand and leads him back to the table, where the scouts all suddenly remember they have work to do and scatter. They, unlike Ben, are not immune to his temper.

“Jango Fett, meet Qui-Gon Jinn and Padmé.”

“ _Me’vaar ti gar,_ ” Padme says with all the politeness of a politician, before smiling a little ruefully and adding, “I’m sorry if my pronunciation is poor, I’ve never actually met a Mandalorian before.”

Jango says nothing until Ben nudges him below the table. “I’ve heard worse,” he eventually grunts.

“From me, probably,” Ben injects wryly. “I wasn’t the fastest learner.”

“It’s that prissy accent,” Jango replies.

“A pleasure to meet you, Jango,” Qui-Gon says. “It warms my heart to know that Ben is surrounded by such loyalty.”

There’s no hesitation in Qui-Gon’s voice, nor any trace of a lie, but Ben can’t help stiffen and immediately regrets it. If he can read Jango, Jango can most definitely read him.

“You knew Ben?” He asks, his voice calm and even and oh, this is not going to end well. Ben puts a hand on his thigh and tries to soothe the anger that’s building back up.

And Qui-Gon, damn him for being so honest, looks full of remorse when he says, “Ben was my student, though I a poor teacher-”

Jango’s fast. So is Qui-Gon.

Unfortunately for Qui-gon, his Jedi reflexes might be enough to avoid the bowl of hot soup Jango suddenly flings at his head, but they aren’t enough to counter the following left hook. Jango never expected the bowl to hit him and knows full well how to counter reflexes faster than his own.

It’s not as brutal a punch as he’s capable of, but it does land with a solid crunch and a blossom of blood as Qui-Gon’s nose breaks.

Padmé yelps and jumps to her feet in shock, but Jango is already settling back down. He rescues the bundled parcel of food Ben was going to give him later and starts to push an assortment of bread and cheese at Ben by way of apologizing for wasting his soup.

“What?” he asks, tilting his head when Ben scowls at him. “I didn’t kill him. Eat.”

Ben doesn’t know what to say. What _can_ he say? Qui-Gon looks neither shocked nor upset and just dabs at his bloody nose with the edge of his poncho, and Jango seems to think that a lack of murder makes everything alright.

Eventually Ben says the only thing he can say: “I’m telling Shmi you got blood on her table.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Udesiir - peace  
> Udesiir, kar'ta - peace, my heart  
> Venku - hope


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: someone has an anxiety attack and there are discussions of life as a slave that, while not graphic, might be disturbing for some.

Shmi’s not angry, she’s disappointed, and that's a million times worse.

Jango is suitably repentant and meek while she scolds him, reminds him that she only told him about Jinn so he would have time to control his temper, and sets him to clean up the bloody mess while Ben introduces the outsiders to other members of the Free.

Jango foists the job off on Anakin in exchange for shooting lessons - which will land the both of them on Shmi’s shit list if she finds out - and takes to following the small group like a particularly irate cloud.

Ben acts like he’s not hovering with vaguely homicidal intent and Jinn is smart enough not to try Jango’s temper, but the young handmaiden is bolder. She looks back and forth between Jango and Ben, smiles a little, and sighs the same way some of the younger girls do when waxing lyrical about their ‘epic romance’. He’ll tolerate her, knowing it will make Ben happy. And he won’t murder Jinn for the same reason.

There’s a gundark in the room as they conduct their tour. Jinn has the insufferable patience of a Jedi, and Ben has the implacable control of a man who spent years waiting for the right moment to act, and in a clash of wills Jango has never seen anyone prove his equal. Jinn wants to know what happened to the boy he knew but is clearly unwilling to hurt him with careless questions. And while Ben makes no secret of his trauma - has weaponized it with brutal honesty and empathy in equal measure - Jango knows Jinn is the one person in the Galaxy he wants to keep in the dark.

Jango’s _buir_ is dead and there’s no home left for him to fear word of his shame reaching, but if he weren’t...

He doesn’t think he’d be handling things as well as Ben is handling Jinn.

So Jinn doesn’t ask, and Ben continues to smile, and tonight Jango will hold him tighter than ever.

After the tour, Jinn steps out to contact the ship and inform them of the arrangements, and they leave the two outsiders with Shmi and her girls to spend the next six hours in the war room trying to agree on just how involved they plan on getting with their invitation to join the Trade Federation, and how the krif to respond to Death Watch’s latest attempt to drag them into a fight. They don’t trust a single member of the Federation and Jango wants nothing more than to cut Pre Visla’s head off, so they settle for sending a polite 'go fuck yourself' to the Federation, and Ben promises they’ll deal with Mandalore when they aren’t at war with everyone else.

It’s a productive meeting in many ways and Ben doesn’t have to break up any fights, so Jango leaves to check in with Bala and her scouts. They've introduced themselves to the crew of the Naboo ship and are either corrupting or being corrupted by the Queen and her handmaidens. The less he asks, the better, but they are safe and not camping in the desert overnight, so he’s as satisfied as he ever is when his people are out of his line of sight.

Then, already missing Ben like a lost limb, he joins him in the great hall.

Ben is their leader - no one doubts or questions it except perhaps Ben himself - but he shuns all the trappings of one. The palace has become a fort, the former occupant’s grand chambers given over to a medical wing and the throne long ago dismantled and used for construction. Ben takes no official title nor claims extra benefits, and on an evening when he’s been successfully pried away from his work, can always be found curled up on the stone floor, his back pressed to Jango’s calves. It’s an entirely subservient position, one Jango figures has roots far preceding his ownership, and it’s not chosen without thought. Nothing Ben does is without thought.

Jango has his back to the wall and can find no objection to Ben using his knee as a headrest when the evening grows dark. The hall is always filled with music, with laughter and joy, and Ben is never short of people who gather around him to share stories and songs and gossip. Jango isn’t a social creature, but he understands the value of information. This way, Ben remains an approachable figure and Jango doesn’t have to engage anyone.

It doesn’t stop the likes of Anakin trying.

Most of the young ones flock to Ben like timid little birds and he is always at his warmest and brightest when in their company. Most of them are scared of Jango, too often associating full armor with a figure of pain and torment. He doesn’t enjoy scaring them, but it doesn’t hurt for them to keep that edge of wariness.

But there are always exceptions to the rule. Children who seem to be blessed with either no fear or no sense - and in Anakin’s case, both - who think that trying to provoke a response from Jango is the absolute greatest way to spend their evenings.

Ben thinks it’s hilarious.

Jango has no sense of humor at all, of course, and is secretly plotting the grisly murder of everyone in the room.

Word must’ve gotten around about his little incident with Jinn, though, and even the most rambunctious of his little terrors is giving him a wide berth. He doesn’t miss their pestering, he just...

Ben’s hand curls around his ankle, the comforting gesture disguised as seeking leverage to find a more comfortable position on the stone floor. They _have_ cushions...

He wants to reach down and run his hands through the soft waves of Ben’s hair, wants to rub his thumbs across the back of his neck and ease the tension he hides so well. He _wants_ to pull Ben up onto his lap and hold him tight because after years of wanting, being in each other’s arms finally means _safe_. He wants all of those things but will act on none of them. For one, the outsiders won’t understand, might read it as jealousy and possessiveness when it’s neither.

And for another, he’s self-aware enough to know that he wants those things for his own comfort more than he wants them for Ben’s. Being in the Jetii’s presence is making his skin crawl, and Jinn is old enough to have played a part in the massacre of his people. Maybe he did. Maybe the man who murdered his _buir_ is here, sitting only feet away, his gaze fixed with open desperation on _Jango’s..._

Ben’s head comes to rest on his knee far earlier than it normally would, an open invitation to take comfort however he needs. He won’t take more. This is enough.

“That’s not how it works,” Ben laughs, carrying on with the group conversation with no betrayal of the anxiety Jango is feeling behind him.

“That’s exactly how it works!” Ta Torva is almost a good a shot as Jango is and ten times louder about it. Jovial to the point of insanity and self-proclaimed bard of the scrappy movement that’s become an empire, he’s always the first to start a song or a joke or an argument. He’s especially good at reading tension in a room and most of the time can do a good job of defusing it.

Padmé giggles, a hand to her mouth to disguise it. “I can promise you, Senators are not chosen based on their ability to mud wrestle.” Giving up the attempt to pretend she’s not enjoying herself, she smiles impishly and adds, “Although I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look Senator Palpatine in the eye again.”

Ben snorts and shakes his head, leaning further into Jango. Palpatine. Is he someone Ben has met? Their first owner entertained a lot of politicians over the years, so it’s possible. Ben likes the girl, though, so he won’t mention it if he has.

“Might be better if they did,” he says wryly.

“Doesn’t that leave us in yet another scenario where the strong dominate their way to power?” Padmé tilts her head to one side, her expression more curious than confrontational, as though she’s surprised Ben thinks that way.

She’s even more surprised when Ben starts to laugh. “I’m guessing you’ve never actually mud wrestled before,” he grins. “Strength has very little to do with victory.”

“I... oh.” She flushes pink.

“I’m teasing,” he tells her. “But I do think that if you’re going to abuse your power, then you should at least have to fight to keep it.”

“Maybe not with mud,” Ta chuckles. “Blasters.” Jango, obligingly, gives his own blaster an absent tap with his fingers. “Precisely!”

“I have to believe that not everyone is as corrupt as you seem to fear,” Padmé frowns. “My people need the Senate’s help.”

“From the Trade Federation,” Ben nods. “How _is_ Nute Gunray?”

“You know the Federation?” Padmé demands. “How?”

“Nothing happens in a vacuum,” Ben explains, “especially not out here. The Eriadu clusterfuck is still giving me headaches.” Jango taps his foot lightly and Ben turns his head to grin up at him. “Next time you see Tarkin, I promise not to stop you shooting him.”

Jango nods and brushes a curl from his brow before he turns back around.

“You’ve been busy,” Jinn says quietly. “Those are some powerful people.”

“People are people,” Ben says, much of the friendliness absent from his voice. It’s not missed by anyone, least of all those who know Ben best. One by one, they excuse themselves from the conversation, many reaching out for a gentle touch to Ben’s elbow or shoulder before scattering to join other groups around the room.

When it’s just Ben, Jango, and the outsiders, all pretenses are dropped.

“What happened?” Jinn asks, his expression raw. “How did you end up here?”

“I had to end up somewhere,” Ben’s shrug is non-committal.

“I looked for you,” Jinn chokes, “we _all_ looked for you.”

Jango misses the warmth of Ben’s head when he straightens up. His new position isn’t threatening or confrontational but Jango tenses all the same, ready to spring into action the second Ben decides it’s okay for him to blast Jinn’s head off.

“Why?” It’s a soft question, one lacking the misery and loss it once held. Why is a dangerous question for people like them and rarely comes with the answer they’d hope for.

It confuses Jinn. “Why did we look for you?”

“I wasn’t a Jedi anymore, and no one asked for your help. Why would you get involved?”

“You were my Padawan,” Jinn says brokenly. “I should never have left you behind.”

For all that Jango wants to cut his kriffing head off, he stays silent. The longer Jinn is allowed to speak, the higher the chance of him saying something stupid enough that Ben will change his mind on the no killing front.

Padmé is a smart girl and stays equally quiet, and the world narrows down to two men and the painful history between them.

“I wanted to stay and help the Young because I saw people suffering and dying and thought I could help,” Ben’s voice is soft, dangerously so, and he holds up the arm that isn’t wrapped around Jango’s leg to indicate the people in the room. “The Force saw fit to take me at my word.”

“What happened to you wasn’t fate, Ob - Ben.” Qui-Gon nearly slips and Ben turns colder.

“It beats the alternative,” he says icily.

Ben still believes in the Force. Still worships it with the blind, hopeless desperation of a man who only has that faith to see him through the day. He can believe the Force is behind all this, has mandated his suffering and pain and still love it because to accept the truth would destroy the bright, beautiful hope that makes him who he is.

Jango doesn’t share his belief, but he will defend it to the death if he has to. He knows what’s real, and he knows there’s no higher power at play here. Just cruelty and greed and senseless horror. And terrible, terrible luck.

“What happened?” Qui-Gon begs. “Why couldn’t we find you? What did they do to you?”

He’s said nothing about the way Ben leans into Jango, but for the first time, his expression turns accusatory. Jango would be angrier if he didn't suddenly feel so sick.

“Would knowing help you?” Ben asks in that same soft, dangerous tone. “Would it ease your guilt, or do you just want the gory details? Should I tell you what they did to me? Do you want their names and their crimes and the order in which they enacted them, or is it enough to say that if you can imagine it, they did it and then a few more things beyond that? Do you wish to know how many times I begged for you to come and save me, or how Jango and I met?”

He’s been listening with growing heartache, but that last line breaks him and he recoils sharply. Ben’s already bowing his head, regret for _that_ sharper than anything else he’s thrown out there. There are too many people around and the world is too small. There’s not even a sliver of skin on show and yet he feels stripped bare, Jinn’s broken anguish and Padmé’s soft empathy and _Ben..._

Strong fingers curl around his own and guide him away from the many faces and voices around them. He dimly hears Shmi step between them and Jinn, holding the outsiders back while Ben draws him towards their small staircase and up into that cherished, private space that is theirs.

As soon as they are out of sight, Jango struggles to remove his _buy'ce,_ his fingers too large and clumsy to work the fastenings.

“I’ve got you,” Ben is there, taking control, helping him free, and suddenly he can breathe again. The world spirals for a second, but that doesn’t stop him reaching out and pulling Ben close, holding him tighter than he should. Soothing fingers dig into his scalp and guide his forehead into the crook of Ben’s neck. “I’m sorry, _kar’ta_. _Ni ceta, ni ceta.”_

Jango closes his eyes and presses closer, his armor digging into tender skin. He knows Ben wasn’t trying to hurt him. He wasn’t even trying to hurt Jinn, that brutal barrage of questions designed to put space between them more than they were to invite pain.

But Jango can’t think of that day without _this..._

Without hating himself.

“I’m sorry,” Ben says again. “That was cruel of me, I wasn’t thinking.” Jinn has him on edge more than he’s willing to admit to himself. Jango doesn’t blame him, nor does he deserve an apology. What right does he have to feel like this when he’s hardly the injured party?

He lets Ben cup his cheeks and brush away tears he didn’t feel fall, and takes the kiss he’s been waiting for all day. There’s peace in this, in Ben’s mouth against his own, soft and sweet and slow. Jango’s world is violence and blood, it’s all he knows, but with Ben he strives always to be tender. Breathless, he lets their foreheads rest together and centers himself.

“I’m sorr-” he presses his fingers to Ben’s lip.

“Just... tell me you love me?” He needs to hear it, for all that he knows it to be true.

Ben takes his fingers and kisses his knuckles with a soft, starlit smile. “Until every light in the Galaxy falls dark,” he promises, “and beyond.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buir - parent (in this case, father)  
> Buy'ce - helmet  
> Ni ceta - I'm sorry (more specifically, 'I kneel')


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: drug use/addiction

Qui-Gon is too on edge to sleep. A lifetime spent trusting the Force - trusting his instincts - wars against that one fateful time it's led to calamity. Padmé’s given into the need to rest, curling up under a soft, woven blue blanket handed to her by Shmi. Qui-Gon doubts she’s seen much sleep since the escape from Naboo and she’ll need all the rest she can get before they arrive on Coruscant.

Tucked away in the corner of the hall, no one pays attention to the fact that he’s awake and wary. The large firepit that brings warmth to desert nights has shrunk to softly glowing embers, a hundred sleeping bodies all happily nestled together for comfort and heat, and there, in the shadows, people hurrying urgently through the room.

Obi-Wan vanished up those stairs several hours ago, tugging the Mandalorian with him. Neither of them has been seen since. He knows that Obi-Wan isn't the thirteen-year-old child he remembers, knows he is a grown man and has sworn no vows to celibacy to the Jedi, but there’s something jarring about the way his mind tries to marry the two beings in his head. The easy - intimate - affection Obi-Wan shows Jango Fett looks in no way coerced, but Qui-Gon is wary. Obi-Wan lived a very sheltered life in the Temple until being thrust out into the world as a Padawan and he worries that his innocent student is in over his head with the likes of Fett. Gui-Gon knows what happens to Jedi who fall into Mandalorian hands; he’s seen the bodies.

All these years...

Little Anakin bounds down the stairs two at a time, his small face pale and pinched with worry as he rushes over to his mother and shakes her awake. He passes an elderly Twi’lek man who carries a heavy bag at his side and whispers in the shared language of the Free. Shmi stirs and quickly pulls a shawl over her shoulders.

“How long?” her voice is soft but Qui-Gon reaches out with the Force.

“Half an hour,” Anakin pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and chews on it worriedly.

The answer startles Shmi. “Half an-” she stops. Shakes herself. Snaps into focus. “Go fetch some water, Ani, and some joii berries, if there are any left.”

“But Ben-” Anakin protests. He looks close to tears, leaning into his mother’s comforting touch.

“Needs you to be calm. Go on.”

Anakin goes with visible reluctance. Shmi watches him leave before heading in the opposite direction. From Qui-Gon’s observations, security in the Fort is handled surreptitiously, but there’s always a watch and the perimeter fortifications are well secured. If something is happening inside, she will no doubt want to ensure those measures remain intact.

It also means that there are only two guards stationed at the foot of the staircase.

A gentle nudge of the Force and they let him pass without question or commotion.

He’s intruding and willing to accept the consequences if it means helping Obi-Wan, but he’s not prepared for the way the Force shrieks in anguish at his presence. He’s stepped into a space that’s not meant for him and violated the safety and sanctity of something he realizes he can’t possibly understand.

Obi-Wan, the boy whose presence he begrudged until its absence, writhes in agony, his body twisting in piles of pillows and softly woven blankets. He’s bare-chested, sweat pooling at his throat and dripping from hair that is plastered to his pale face. Behind him, his own heaps of blankets the only thing preserving his modesty, Fett holds him firm. He keeps Ob- _Ben’s_ wrists crossed and pinned to his chest, both arms a tight vice around him. Ben’s head jerks against his shoulder, his eyes rolling wildly, and by the looks of it, Fett’s the only thing keeping him from clawing at his face. Small scratches on his cheeks leak thin rivulets of blood and Qui-Gon can only stare at them, horrified and helpless.

Fett clocks his presence, a flash of fear and unimaginable hatred in his dark eyes before he refocuses on Ben, that dark anger rolling away to leave only honest, open-hearted devotion behind. Whatever Qui-Gon fears, Jango Fett is clearly in love. The Force near sings with it.

The soft, steady stream of Mando’a Fett whispers into Ben’s ear becomes background noise as Qui-Gon takes a knee beside them. Opposite, the Twi’lek healer carefully prepares a syringe.

“Wait,” Qui-Gon says harshly, recognizing the substance from too many disastrous missions. “Why are you giving him _Spice?”_

“ _Usenye, Jetii,”_ Fett snarls, his teeth bared.

“Let me help,” Qui-Gon pleads, Obi-Wan’s soft, pained moans dragging broken shards of ice across his heart. The pain is rolling off him in waves and he can’t understand why he’s making no attempt to release it into the Force. Even as a child, he knew how to do that. He reaches out a hand, ready to transfuse as much comfort and strength as he can, knowing Obi-Wan’s wrecked body needs help, not poison.

“If you touch him,” Fett hisses furiously - fearfully, “I will kill you.”

“Please,” he whispers, stilling his outstretched hand above Obi-Wan’s heart. “I can't let you _drug_ him.”

The Twi’lek shakes his head impatiently. “If you want to help him, _this_ is how.”

Fett manages to pry Obi-Wan’s arm out straight, holding him firmly in place for the syringe. In the low light, Qui-Gon can see a cluster of bruises along the inside of Obi-Wan’s arm. This isn’t the first time they’ve done this. It’s not the tenth. When the syringe moves towards the boy’s arm, Qui-Gon snaps out a hand and closes it tightly over blue fingers. They’re caught in a stalemate; Fett can’t do anything without letting go of Obi-Wan, the Twi’lek has no hope of breaking his grasp, and Qui-Gon is under no illusion of his ability to extract a delirious Obi-Wan from the fort uncosted.

Cloudy, pain-filled blue eyes blink up at him from a face that appears a decade younger. It’s not quite the last look the boy gave him, but it’s not far off. It’s certainly close to the way he looks at Qui-Gon in his dreams: hurting, helpless, frightened.

“Master,” he breathes. It’s such a small sound, fragile and hopeful. Fett flinches, his grip loosening, and Qui-Gon doesn’t hesitate.

He presses his palm over Obi-Wan’s heart and reaches out with all the pure light of the Force, ready and willing to wrap the boy up in that safety and carry his pain away.

Instead, Obi-Wan _screams_.

He screams as though Qui-Gon has poured fire into his mind, his body spasming with increasing violence as the Force touches his soul and recoils. In an instant, there’s _nothing_. Then Obi-Wan’s presence in the Force - muted as it’s been - explodes into a thousand shatterpoints of pain. There are no shields, no barriers between himself and the Galaxy. His whole being, past, present, and future, lays itself open to _everything_. And he projects it all right back.

 _So much pain._ Every second, every inch of him, soul-deep and relentless. He hurts as Qui-Gon has never experienced before, raw agony and unimaginable suffering.

 _So much rage._ It consumes him, consumes everything around him. A fire that can’t be quenched, an injustice that can never be addressed. It burns him from the inside out, demands every ounce of strength he has and more, and more, and more...

 _So much hate._ He still can’t understand it, can’t comprehend it, but their faces flash before him, one after another, each with a Rolodex of brutality to their name and he _hates them all of them they need to die they need to suffer they need to suffer they need to..._

The blast doors to Obi-wan’s soul slam closed, a tidal wave of fog closing over exposed nerves. Qui-Gon falls back, breathless and weeping. The syringe in Obi-Wan’s arm has delivered it’s dose and the world stops screaming.

Qui-Gon can _feel_ the poison seep into Obi-Wan’s veins, can feel him retreating to that cloudy, muted place, and hates himself for his relief.

“Get out,” Fett spits, his own face wrecked and heartbroken. Hands that bruised are tender now, cradling Obi-Wan in his arms, rocking him gently. "Get out!"

Qui-Gon stands on unsteady legs. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and he is. For so many things.

Fett tucks Obi-Wan’s head against his shoulder and strokes his hair back with trembling hands. The words he whispers to Obi-Wan are ones of love; promises to cherish him, promises to protect him.

If he wasn’t on the list of people Obi-Wan needed protecting from before, he certainly is now.

A small hand settles on his arm, drawing him away from the intimate scene. He turns into the steely glare of Shmi, who jerks her head towards the stairs in a silent demand that he follow. He does. Without further question or complaint.

Most of the gatherers in the hall are awake now, huddled together with lost, frightened expressions. They’ll have heard the screaming. The rambunctious life of vibrancy, joy and freedom that existed only a few hours ago now seems like a thin veneer to hide the weariness and heartache that hides below the surface.

Shmi leads him down into a large kitchen. She shares a brief, quiet word with two men who are preparing bread for the morning, then directs Qui-Gon to sit quietly at the large table in the middle of the room. No one says anything more while she brews a pot of tea and the men finish their preparations. Qui-Gon takes the chance to try release his emotions into the Force.

It’s a struggle. The closer he gets to the place that usually welcomes him with open arms, the louder Obi-Wan’s screams ring in his head. He’s never felt anyone react that way to a healing touch. He’s never _hurt_ anyone so unintentionally. It’s a sickening, sobering feeling. There’s far more going on here than appears on the surface. There’s far more going on with Obi-Wan.

 _Ben_. It’s Ben now. He needs to respect that.

A slightly lopsided ceramic mug is pushed into his hands. The tea Shmi has brewed has a rich, earthy scent, warm with the root spices and flowers that grow out in the desert. To survive Tatooine’s heat, plantlife has to be hale and hearty and extremely resilient and the tea’s strong flavor reflects that.

“Thank you,” he says, holding his mug up in a small salute of appreciation. She’s holding her own mug. Despite the long day and interrupted sleep, she’s bright-eyed and fresh-faced. Resilient and strong like those desert flowers.

“It must be frightening, seeing him like that.” It’s a statement, not a question. Qui-Gon finds himself agreeing regardless.

“Does it happen often?” He thinks of the bruises on Ben’s arm, of the competent, experienced way Fett held him and the Twi’lek healer’s quick response.

Shmi nods sadly. “More so now than before. The drugs don’t last as long. He needs a higher dose each time.”

Of _Spice_. Of a drug that has destroyed millions of lives across the Galaxy. “You speak of it as though it’s an antidote, not a narcotic.”

She raises a challenging eyebrow. “Don’t all drugs have their purpose if used properly? Myocaine is a muscle relaxant used to ease pain in those suffering from seizures or injured in battle. It’s also used by criminals to make their victims more pliant and suggestible. So do we stop administering it to those it helps?”

“Myocaine is a controlled substance,” Qui-Gon reminds her. “Administered by medical professionals.”

“Adein is our Healer. More importantly, he’s Ben’s healer. Everything that he did tonight has been discussed with Ben and Jango before. I can see your fear for him, but nothing nefarious is going on, I promise you.”

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he says, and he genuinely means it, “but I can’t believe that. Ben is Force-sensitive. He was a Jedi-”

“A Jedi who spent a decade wearing a suppressant collar,” she interrupts him sternly. “How much do you know about the night this all started?” She holds out a hand and gestures at the kitchen; the fort, the whole rebellion, included by implication.

Frowning, he says, “Rumors, mostly. The stories that reach the Jedi have been wild and outlandish.” Understanding dawns. “Perhaps not as much hyperbole as we’ve imagined?”

“I wasn’t there,” she says, “and those who were will not speak of it for love of Ben. But if your rumors say that a single slave decimated half a moon in his bid for freedom... they would not be entirely inaccurate.”

All of the rage and hate and pain he’s felt in Ben, and a decade of wearing a Force suppressant collar. If it was removed suddenly - if he wasn’t gently brought back into the Force’s loving embrace - the result could be catastrophic. By the sound of it, it _was_.

Ben has just enough training to be deadly and not nearly enough to control himself in the face of such destructive emotions.

Qui-Gon’s lost one apprentice to the Dark Side, Xanatos choosing greed and power over the Code.

Ben hasn’t fallen, not yet, but...

“He’s using the Spice to cut himself off from the Force,” he realizes, horror curdling in his gut as he understands the full extent of the risk Ben is taking to control himself. He doesn’t have the skill or experience to regulate his power but using a chemical to do the job for him...

Shmi said it himself. The doses aren’t lasting as long.

He’s going to reach the point where it no longer works. If he doesn’t overdose first.

Then the best-case scenario is that the rush of energy returning to him will stop Ben’s heart.

The worst-case...

“Shmi, this will _kill_ him. I have to take him back to Coruscant. Back to the Temple. We can help him. Heal his connection to the Force.”

There are so many ways the Jedi can help. So many ways _Qui-Gon_ can help, now he knows what the problem is. Ben doesn’t have to suffer like this. He doesn’t have to poison himself for fear of what he might do when he finally loses control.

“He won’t leave us,” she says sadly. “Not for the Jedi.”

“Then he _will_ die.” And in the process he might kill everyone he cares for, everyone he’s sworn to protect.

Staring into the contents of her mug as if seeking answers within the swirling tea, Shmi’s proud shoulders slump. Qui-Gon wonders what her story is. There are lines in the corners of her eyes and subtle signs of aging that are more a product of her environment than a sign of her age. She can’t be more than thirty, but she carries herself as though much older.

“He won’t listen to me,” she says slowly, “or Adein. But-” she pauses, and Qui-Gon knows, resignation growing, what she is going to say, “he will listen to Jango.”

Qui-Gon sets his mug down purposely.

He’s waited twelve years to bring Ben home, to see him safe and well. He’s chased every lead, hunted every informant and beaten his way through a fair number of obstacles. If this final hurdle is to be the hardest, then so be it.

“Then I shall have to convince Jango.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usenye - On the sliding scale of 'go away' to 'fuck off' it's very much leaning towards the latter!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've officially spent far too long researching intergalactic trade routes for this fic...
> 
> Also! Soft boys are soft, hugs are had and please come hang out with me on tumblr (beamirang) and save me from myself!
> 
> Warnings: the part in italic at the start is a flashback/dream from before the escape, so proceed with caution.

_Ben's forgotten what it's like to breathe without the terrifying press of hard metal against his throat. Before, it was merely heavy. Cumbersome. Now he can't swallow without the bend digging hard into skin. He tries to remember his katas, tries to run through them in his mind one after another, focusing on form and timing and anything other than the way his body is aching and his head spinning and the rough press of a hard floor beneath him. The more difficult it is to breathe, the easier it is to lose himself in the familiar routines. One day he might never come back from them. One day he might not want to. But across the room, his face bruised and bloody from yet another fight their Master has sent him to win, Jango meets his eyes with fierce desperation._

_They've been sold as a matched set; Mandalorian and Jedi. If Ben doesn't come back, what will happen to him?_

_"Quiet little thing, isn't he?"_

_A tug at the chain fastened to his collar pulls him limply up off the floor and lets him prop himself upright at the base of his Master's chair._

_"He has his moments. You ever see a Jedi before?"_

_"One or two..." a new hand loops around the chain and hauls him to his feet. If they wanted him to stand unaided, they should've let him eat something. He's pulled forwards against dark robes, familiar but not, and forced to look up into a tattooed face. "This one is no Jedi. Just a lost little Padawan. If your Master could see you now..."_

_"I'm his kriffing Master. I won him and the Mandalorian beast fair and square!"_

_"Of course. I meant no disrespect." The warm body Ben's leaning against takes a step away. Faced with falling flat on his face, Ben manages to cling to his dignity and sink down to his knees with as much grace as he can muster. He spends so much time like this it's almost comfortable. If he closes his eyes he can almost fall asleep._

_The chain tugs harshly and sends him sprawling onto his back. Instead of focusing on the pain, he prays only that Jango keeps his mouth shut this time._

_"Tell me, Your Excellency, have you ever removed his collar?" The man in the billowing black cloak steps over him, his yellow eyes flashing brightly._

_"I'm not stupid. You think I want him scrambling my brain?"_

_When Ben's pulled to his feet this time, it's by a hand in his, another under his elbow. It's a courteous gesture, one lost on the likes of Ben, and it's followed with a supporting arm around his waist. "What about you, pet?" Red fingers smooth back Ben's long hair, his sharp nails pressing just hard enough into skin to draw a flush of pink to the surface. "Would you like to scramble his brain?"_

_It's a trick question. Ben can still barely stand and it's hard to focus on anything other than the hypnotic sounds of the man's voice. "Master?"_

_His fingers curl around Ben's neck. just above the hated collar. "Oh, I'm not your Master," he says. Then, drawing him in closer, his lips pressed against Ben's ear, he adds, "not yet."_

_And with a snap, the collar falls away and the world around him whites out into a brilliant abyss._

* * *

Ben wakes with a painful jolt and is immediately pulled into the safe cradle of Jango's arms. 

"You're safe." That's the first thing Jango will always tell him. "You're safe."

"Hey," Ben croaks. "You look terrible."

He reaches up and brushes the tips of his fingers along the curve of Jango’s cheek. He hasn’t shaved yet, the skin rough and bristly, and for some reason that makes something bright and warm glow inside him. This is the Jango the world should know; tender and kind and devoted. The man he is here in Ben’s arms is the kind of man all should aspire to be. It grieves Ben that few will ever be allowed to know him.

The smoothly polished rim of a carved wooden cup is held up to his mouth and held steady, allowing him to greedily gulp down the water inside. There’s no point asking what happened: these days, if he wakes up feeling like he’s been dragged by the ankles through Beggar’s Canyon, there’s only really one likely cause.

Instead, he asks, “How bad?” He knows he’s a poor judge of these things, but it’s essential he keeps track of how quickly he’s deteriorating. The first few years he's managed easily enough, but these last eighteen months...

He’s afraid of what will happen when the Spice is no longer enough and will sooner die than submit to another collar, but if...

Turning his head into the warmth of Jango’s shoulder, he closes his eyes and soaks up the strength so willingly offered. He can’t leave his people. He can’t leave Jango.

Loving hands idly play with his hair. It’s clean and neatly combed and he’s dressed in a fresh tunic. Jango’s taken care of him. He always does.

“You scared me,” Jango admits. “I couldn’t reach you.”

Ben kisses his shoulder and wraps an arm around him as best he can. These unpleasant ‘incidents’ always leave him as weak as a newborn, but the gesture will count for more than the effort he can put into it. “I’m sorry.”

He waits for the inevitable follow-up. They have the same conversation every time. It’s not an argument: Ben is too tired to argue, and the care Jango takes to not raise his voice with him doubles. But they speak the same lines and reach the same conclusion.

Jango wants to take Ben somewhere completely isolated and safe and let him purge the drugs from his system. He thinks, naively, that when there’s nothing standing between Ben and the Force, Ben will eventually be able to control himself. He thinks the collateral damage can be negated by distance. He thinks Ben will be able to handle it better than he did the first time; that he’ll be expecting it, that he’s strong enough to cope. He thinks Ben will die before hurting him and is willing to gamble everything on that trust.

Ben won’t die before hurting him. He’ll die after.

There’s never really been a time where their differences have meant anything significant to Ben before. To Jango, yes, but then Jango’s history with the Jedi is a dark stain on the Order that no blood can ever cleanse away. Ben understands his hate even as he regrets it.

But Jango is Mandalorian. More so, he is the rightful Mand'alor. His heart beats to a drum Ben will never hear, and his people have _never_ had much in common with the Jedi. Quite the opposite. If Mandalore makes an alliance with Force users, it’s typically an alliance with the Sith.

Jango isn’t a bad person. His people weren’t bad, either. And so they don’t understand.

Letting himself touch the Force again won’t be easier because he knows what to expect.

It will be harder.

To have power after a decade of being helpless? To know that he can pulverize his abusers with just a thought? That he can make _them_ feel the way he feels, can make them _suffer_ as he has...

He’s had a taste. He let the Dark Side consume him. Never again.

He’ll die first. He’ll die gladly.

Jango can’t understand that. Can’t understand why Ben willingly cuts himself off from a power that could make all of their many conflicts with the Galaxy significantly easier.

But he loves Ben, and trusts him, and will always let the subject drop.

One of these days, though, he won’t. He’ll make Ben chose.

Surprisingly, it’s not today.

He kisses Ben’s brow instead. “Jinn was here,” he admits, his eyes downcast. “He saw.” Ben hears the words unspoken and feels his heart clench with anger. Jango is talking about Ben, but Qui-Gon saw more than that. He saw them. He saw Jango. In the one and only place Jango is supposed to be _safe_. Struggling to push himself upright, he ends up practically climbing Jango just to deposit himself in his lap. From there, he can wrap himself entirely around him, a physical barrier between him and the world and a loving embrace in one. He holds firm with arms and legs, sighs in relief when Jango hides his face in his neck, and lets minutes pass as he plays with long curls.

Jango's a stunningly handsome man, strong features and intense dark eyes, and his hair... oh, his hair is beautiful. He lets Ben tug on tight, silky curls and twist them around his fingers and he _melts_ when they have the time for Ben to properly comb and braid it for him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, rubbing his fingers over Jango’s scalp, feeling the ridges of long healed wounds. He remembers each of them, stitched a fair number of them, and wears their reflections on his heart.

“I hate him,” Jango whispers against his throat.

“I know,” Ben answers. “But don’t you think we have enough people to hate already?”

“Most of them are dead,” Jango grumbles. “I can piss on their ashes.” Can. Has. It’s one Mando tradition he’s not about to adopt any time soon.

“Most of them,” Ben admits. “Not all.”

“If you’re worried about the Trade Federation-” Jango leans back, his hands moving to settle on Ben’s waist. He holds him back far enough to meet his gaze and steady enough to ensure he will never fall.

“I’m worried about the timing. And motivation. If this is a precursor to an invasion, why make a move on Naboo and not Enarc? Why make a move on a planet with only one significant trade run when there’s a planet with three less than two parsecs away?”

“Enarc has a standing military, Naboo doesn’t,” Jango points out. “If this is really about trade, I’d start with Naboo and use the planet to launch an invasion.”

“‘If’ is the problem though, isn’t it? The Federation has Senate representation. _If_ it’s about trade there are completely legal ways of taking temporary control of that whole sector. Why risk a blockade, something tantamount to a declaration of war, when it all could be handled in the Courts?”

“Time? Maybe they’re on a deadline? We both know how long the Senate takes to decide anything.”

Ben snorts. “That’s true.”

Jango raises a hand to rest his palm on Ben’s jaw. “Why are you worrying about this, _cyar'ika?_ The more time Nute Gunray spends kriffing around on Naboo the less time he’ll spend chasing us to join them.”

Ben leans into his touch and lets his eyes fall closed. He’s so tired. He’d stay here forever if he could, just the two of them. “I worry,” he admits, “because either this is a diversion for something more significant than a trade dispute, or it’s not. And if it’s not then they won’t stop with Naboo.”

Jango tenses against him, fire flashing in his eyes. “You think they’ll try to invade Tatooine?”

“Yesterday I’d say I didn’t think they’d ever be so bold,” he admits, “but now... our people aren’t soldiers, love.” They’ll fight to the death, but the Federation has an army. They’re not ready.

Both of Jango’s hands now cup his jaw, holding him like something infinitely precious. “We came here to free slaves. We did that. And we’ve killed every last shabuir that’s looked at us and imagined us easy prey. The Federation is no different from the Hutts, and if Nute Gunray thinks he can come here and take a planet that’s soaked in Free blood then he’s gonna have a nasty kriffing surprise when he gets here. And if he thinks he can intimidate you...”

“You’ll kill him for me?” Ben shouldn’t smile, but it’s hard not to. Jango takes anything that’s not an outright order to back down as explicit permission to dismember.

He’s drawn into a kiss, one that’s soft and sweet and tastes faintly of blood, before Jango rests their foreheads together. “Only when you’re done with him, _cyar'ika.”_

* * *

_“_ One T14 Hyperdrive Generator,” Keldir slaps one of his hands against his thigh and makes a ringing clap, “as ordered.”

The morning’s supply run is right on schedule. Workers quickly move to unpack and assign each container, the system they’ve put in place over the last few years making the process streamlined and speedy. It takes less than five minutes for the delivery to be unloaded.

Any longer and Ben might start climbing the walls. Jango is back behind his _beskar'gam_ , and he’s pulled on a blue tunic that does a good job of hiding how very close to death he still feels, but there’s no escaping the way Qui-Gon is looking at him. It’s not a new experience and he’ll even go out of his way to make himself noticeable when he has to, but there’s an intensity to the Jedi’s gaze that’s unnerving. It’s not hungry or scornful or cruel, but if it’s supposed to be subtle, it’s not. The last person who looked at him with such intent was a slaver who made a shockingly ill-advised attempt to kidnap him and who took three days to die after Jango beat him senseless and strung him up outside the fort by his ankles.

He really doesn’t want to repeat the exercise, but he takes a half step closer to Jango anyway.

“Thanks, Kel.” Ben finds a smile for his friend and watches as two of his men reload the part onto a smaller convoy for transport out to Jinn’s ship. “Shmi saved you some of her butter rolls.”

Keldor hoots joyfully and bounds through the courtyard towards the main door. Before he enters, he spins on his heel and asks, “Have you..?”

“Not yet,” Ben says patiently. “I will, I promise.” He can feel Jango’s confusion so he drops his voice lower and fills him in. “He thinks Bala has a thing for one of the Spice runners in Mos Eisley.”

“Want me to kill them?” Jango immediately offers.

“It’s tempting,” Ben smiles, “but I was thinking she and I could have an adult conversation.” He doesn't need to see Jango’s face to know exactly what kind of expression he’s making. “Do _you_ want to talk to her about it?”

“I’d rather shoot myself in the balls,” he says flatly. “ _She’d_ rather I shot myself in the balls.”

Now that Ben doesn’t doubt. He doesn’t actually think Jango and Bala have ever _talked_ about anything unrelated to work and missions in their entire relationship. Mostly they just exchange grunts that only make sense to the two of them.”

“So I’ll talk to her. And if it’s serious and _if_ this Spice runner behaves inappropriately-”

“I can feed him to Gunther,” Jango says, nodding in satisfaction. “Agreed.”

“Who’s Gunther?” Padmé asks. She’s clutching a basket full of desert pears and Shmi’s famous bread and Ben is relieved to see that she, at least, has been making friends.

“He’s...” how best to explain Gunther? “Well-”

The booming wail of the proximity alarm blasts across the courtyard. It’s only the third time Ben has ever heard it, the large ornate horn preserved for ceremonial purposes, or to announce that danger is literally on their doorstep.

Qui-Gon has his unlit saber in hand and Ben burns with the need to feel his own nestled in his palm.

Jango’s rough grip on his elbow startles him into action. He shoves Ben back into the waiting embrace of his guards and moves to take point. Qui-Gon, Ben’s relieved to see, stays at Padmé’s side.

“Open the gates!”

Whatever commotion is happening on the other side of the wall, the duty watch calls down to Jango, who nods in agreement. With a great groan, the metal doors open and as soon as they have enough space to maneuver through, Anakin and Bala are stumbling into the courtyard.

Ben shoves free from the men trying to protect him and sprints forwards. He’s not there in time to catch Bala, who slumps unconscious into Jango’s arms, but he is able to catch Anakin.

The little boy launches himself into Ben’s arms with enough force to send him stumbling back. He absolutely reeks of fear, the tears rolling down his cheeks multiplying with each choked sob.

“Ani! What happened?” he turns to Jango, who is laying Bala down and barking out orders to summon Adein. She’s dirty and disheveled but there aren’t any visible signs of blood. Just burnt fabric and...

Ben sets Anakin down and kneels before him. Gently curling a thumb under the child’s chin, he lifts his gaze and gets a good look at the vicious cut that’s sliced from his eyebrow to his cheek.

It’s not bleeding and the flesh isn’t broken. It’s _burned_.

Not the wound of a blaster injury, but one of a lightsaber.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive the delay! It's wild in quarantine here! I hope everyone is staying safe and well! x

The rolling nausea that’s been tugging on the edge of Ben’s focus rapidly swells in the face of Anakin’s fear and pain. Adein will need to fix all of his attention on Bala - who is still and unmoving no matter how Jango shakes her - and with the exception of Cisto, who is barely out of his teens and nervous when unsupervised, they have very limited resources when it comes to healers. Most of their qualified medics are in the field, stationed at outposts and settlements across the planet. They have one makeshift hospital out past Mos Eisley, but he makes a mental note to push for more local training, then focuses all of his attention on Anakin.

“Easy, little one,” he soothes, hoisting the child up in his arms and carrying him inside. It’s cooler and more importantly, he’ll want some privacy with his mother. That doesn’t stop both Qui-Gon and Padmé from following behind him. Ben ignores them for now, trusting Jango’s men to ensure they are secure and knowing he’ll be able to get a better idea of what has happened once Anakin is calmer.

Shmi hurries over, the small box of medical supplies she keeps in the kitchen tucked under her arm.

“Ani!” Brushing the boy’s unruly hair back to get a better look at his injury, she shoots Ben a worried, furious side glance.

“Is Bala gonna be okay?” Anakin sniffs through his tears.

“She’s in the best hands,” Ben promises him. “Now why don’t you let your mom take a look at this while you tell me what happened?”

“Hurts,” Anakin cries harder when his mother gently touches the burned skin. He’s lucky not to have lost his eye.

“Remember what I told you?” Ben asks, forcing himself not to look at Qui-Gon. “How to release your pain into the Force?”

“I can’t-” Anakin shakes his head wildly, pulling away from the gentle touch and growing more agitated by the minute.

Qui-Gon kneels at his side and holds up his hands unthreateningly. “I can help you, Anakin,” he offers, “if you’ll let me.”

Anakin looks to Ben for an answer. In any other situation, Ben might be tempted to say no. Out of spite, maybe, or at least out of mistrust. Any other situation... but he can’t let Anakin suffer needlessly and he knows Qui-Gon _can_ help.

So he nods. “I’ll be right here,” he promises, taking one of Anakin’s small hands and holding tightly.

“Okay,” Anakin agrees, settling long enough for Shmi to get to work.

“Close your eyes, young one.” Qui-Gon’s voice is soft and very gentle, triggering something akin to longing deep beneath the scar tissue of Ben’s heart. Memories of meditating with Qui-Gon are mostly a dream now, lost beneath the rubble of too many years disconnected from the Force. A part of him envies them, both of them, as he watches Anakin trustingly obey. Qui-Gon’s connection with the Living Force had been a joyful song playing in the back of his mind, a melody he longs to hear again. And Anakin... Ben doesn’t need a connection with the Force to know the boy all but radiates Light.

Anakin has played a large part in helping Ben find his own light; Ben has no right to envy him anything.

Under Qui-Gon’s expert guidance, Anakin settles and stills while Shmi cleans and dresses his injury. They’re low on bacta - low on so many things it seems - and he wonders if maybe he should be taking Padmé up on her offer for aide. They’re not short on weapons or ammunition - those things are easy enough to come by in their areas of operation - but he refuses to authorize action against civilians. The usual assortment of pirates, smugglers and bounty hunters they encounter are depressingly predictable in their cargo.

The one thing they’re not short of is Spice and that’s hardly an option here.

All he can do is watch helplessly as he trusts Anakin to Qui-Gon.

By the time Shmi has finished dressing the wound, Jango has made his way inside. Reluctantly, Ben slips his fingers from Anakin’s and lets himself be pulled to one side. Immediately, Jango runs his hands down from his shoulders to his wrists. It doesn’t matter that they’ve only been apart for a few minutes; when there’s danger, Jango’s worry increases exponentially. And after the morning they’ve had...

“How’s Bala?”

“They’re taking her to the infirmary,” Jango says, telling Ben both that she’s stable enough to travel but serious enough to need to. “I’ve got the Blues and Grays on recon and we’ve doubled the patrol.”

“Good,” he nods. “Someone needs to tell Kel-”

“Ta’s on it,” Jango assures him. “Have you talked to the kid?”

“Not yet. I don’t even know why he was out there - Bala was on the ship with the other scots, right?” Anakin has a gift for getting himself into trouble, but he’s not usually reckless enough to leave the fort in the middle of the night.

“She could’ve been heading back and met him on the outskirts.” He doesn’t say what they both fear - that the rest of the scouts are likely dead. “We need to establish who their attacker is here for, us or them.”

They turn in unison to look at the two outsiders. Padmé’s face is pinched, no doubt worried for her people - and her Queen.

There’s another political shitstorm headed their way. If the Queen of Naboo is murdered on his kriffing planet he’ll have the Senate on his ass before you can say ‘justified retribution’.

Qui-Gon slowly emerges from his meditation, bringing Anakin back with him. They give the boy a moment to get his bearings, then Ben nudges Jango forward. There’s an awkward exchange when Jango flails a little in stubborn refusal before ultimately conceding to Ben’s raised eyebrow of expectation. Anakin thinks the suns rise and set at Jango’s command and is desperate to impress him; he’ll be far more likely to give him a coherent report than he will Ben.

“Tell me what happened,” Jango says. Ben knows he’s trying his best to _not_ be a towering menace, but his efforts seem to miss their mark as his voice comes out gruff and authoritative.

Anakin, as expected, straightens his back and slinks away from Shmi’s protective embrace. It makes Ben smile and wonder if he was ever that young. It doesn’t feel like it. “I wanted to see the ship,” Anakin says, struggling to look up. “But I ran into your scouts. I did _try_ to hide from them,” he adds mulishly, before remembering that Shmi is right next to him. “Sorry, mom.”

“We’re not angry,” Ben promises.

“I’m angry,” Jango says, because he’s honest to the bone and distressingly stubborn about it. “But we’ll get to that later. What happened when they found you?”

“Bala made me come back with them. She said she’d let me look at the hyperdrive generator - I’ve never seen one for a T14; they’re the fastest in the Galaxy you know?” Jango clears his throat loudly and what little animation Anakin has recovered drains away meekly. “He had a saber like yours,” he says to Qui-Gon, “only I don’t think he was a Jedi.”

“I see no reason why a Jedi would attack any of you,” Qui-Gon agrees, ignoring the way Jango clenches his first.

“He had a red sword. And a red face! Like Cain!”

“A Zabrack?” Cain is one of the many members of the council and handles most of the planning and housing committees on Ben’s behalf. He’s a gentle man despite his fearsome appearance. Perhaps even because of it.

“Yes!”

“Did he get to the ship?”

“No,” Anakin shakes his head. “I mean... I don’t think so? He was headed for the city.”

“You think he’s here for us?” Shmi asks worriedly.

Jango jerks his head in Qui-Gon’s direction. “Or them. I think it’s time you both leave.”

Ben prepares himself for an argument, half expecting Qui-Gon to insist on staying and investigating. Instead, he surprises all of them. “Agreed. It’s imperative I get the Queen to Coruscant. I believe this attacker will attempt to follow us.”

“What if he’s here to attack the Free?” Padmé demands. “We can’t leave them-”

“If he’s here for us, he’ll get the same welcome we give all our enemies,” Jango growls. “But given that we’ve gone three years without encountering a single lightsaber-wielding shelb and now have two within the space of a day I think Jinn’s right. The sooner you leave, the safer you are.”

It’s just like Jango to deliver an insult in the same breath as an agreement, but Ben is of the same mind.

“What if he’s still out there?” Anakin turns worried eyes from Padmé to Ben. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“We’ll send a unit with you to ensure you make it to your ship safely,” Ben says, holding up a hand to silence the protest he knows Jango is about to come out with. “I’m sorry, I wish we could offer more, but I have the wellbeing of these people to put first.”

“You’ve done more than enough,” Padmé says gratefully. “And we will return your kindness, you have my word.” It’s not her call to make, but there’s a resolve in her eyes as bright and solid as the heart of a star. She speaks with the authority of someone who is used to getting things done. It’s the voice - and stance - of a leader. Of a Queen.

Well now, isn’t that interesting?

“A word of advice?” He offers, waiting for her to nod before continuing. “Tell your Queen that she’s not to trust anyone in the Senate.” She starts to bristle, offended by the implication that she’s out of her depth. That’s not what Ben is saying. If anything he’s impressed - she’s barely into her teens and wouldn’t be in the position she is if not eminently capable - but he holds some cards he knows for a fact she doesn’t. “ _Anyone_. Especially not people who tell you they’re on your side.”

Jango doesn’t move an inch. Ben can still pick up the change in his breathing. It becomes even more noticeable when Qui-Gon climbs back to his feet and takes a step towards Ben.

For all that his mind is made up - that the mission comes first, always - Ben thinks, _hopes_ , that he’s not imagining the way his old mentor’s eyes look sad and conflicted.

And all of a sudden, Ben doesn’t want him to go.

“You know I have to ask,” Qui-Gon says, his voice low and even, free from expectation.

Ben nods. He knows. “And you know what my answer will be.”

The smile on Qui-Gon’s face nearly makes him cry. Did he ever look at Obi-Wan like that? Ben doesn’t think so.

“I’m coming back,” Qui-Gon promises. “I swear it to you. I won’t lose you again.”

He says that, but there will always be another mission. Still, he can but hope. His foolish heart has no choice in the matter.

“I’ll be here,” he says, smiling down at Anakin and Shmi, leaning closer to Jango. “May the Force be with you.”

“May the Force be with you, Padawan.”

The word hits him with the force of an ion cannon. He has to close his eyes against the weight if it, every part of him aching for a time when the only worry in his life was pleasing Qui-Gon.

Pleasing his Master.

Flinching a little, he tries to find the words to apologize for the grief and sorrow that fills Qui-Gon’s eyes. He’s got nothing.

“Jango?” He turns, as always, to his heart, his strength, and Jango knows what he needs without further explanation.

“Come with me,” he tells Qui-Gon and Padmé. “I’ll see to your escort.”

They leave with only a soft word of thanks from Padmé, and after checking on Anakin, he makes a quiet, tactical retreat.

He wants to go back to their room. He wants to close his eyes and sleep for a year.

But there’s planning to be done and precautions to be made.

One way or another now, the Republic is about to take far more interest in a planet full of ex-slaves than any of them are ready for.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO FROM THE OTHER SIDE!
> 
> Or, here, have an update 5 months later...
> 
> I am so, so sorry for the wait! My brain is still somewhat fuzzy from covid but I'm going to try get updates back to something semi-regular!

The _jetii_ leaves, taking the Queen of Naboo and her retinue with him, along with a small, very precious part of the man Jango loves. They depart quietly, calmly, at odds with the chaos they have brought into Jango’s life, and with an unspoken promise to return someday and steal away his heart.

The winds change so quickly out here in the wastes, cutting great swathes into the landscape only to change direction and start anew at a whim. When this wind changes course again, he fears what destruction it will bring.

Before he departs, Jinn catches his eye, looking old and tired and sadder than he has any right to. “Thank you,” he says gravely. “Thank you for protecting him.” Jango doesn’t scoff the way he wants to. Jinn remembers the child, the boy he abandoned. He doesn’t know Ben. If Jango has his way, it’ll stay like that.

“Bring trouble to our door again, _jetii_ ,” Jango says, “and I will show you just how far that protection goes.”

“We can only hope our mysterious attacker follows us off the planet.”

“If he doesn’t, Ben will deal with him,” Jango has no doubt about that. Ben is not often moved to violence, but oh, when he is... Jango has seen _jetii_ fight and he’s killed more than most. Ben isn’t like them. Maybe once, but not now.

“He’s dangerous,” Jinn says seriously, speaking of their attacker.

Jango meets his gaze unflinchingly. “Yes,” he says, thinking of Ben, “he is.”

If the _jetii_ come back here, they’ll find out for themselves, one way or another.

* * *

After checking in on Bala - still critical, still so pale - and Anakin - unnervingly quiet, sleeping against Shmi’s side - Jango checks in with his captains and withdraws to the battlements to begin his inspections. The fort, already used to being on high alert, crawls with activity. They all know what is at stake should their standards slip. An attack on one of them is an attack on all of them. Bala is well respected, even if she has few friends, and Anakin... well, they all love the brat. Even Jango can admit that.

For all that Jango wants to think that the attack was directed at Jinn and his party, at an off-world mission that has no place disrupting their lives, there is every possibility that the would-be assassin _is_ there for them. He wouldn’t be the first. Jango’s lost count of the number of people who’ve tried to kill him these past few years. He’s _not_ lost count of the number who have tried to kill Ben.

As Jango makes his round, each guard he passes meets his gaze and nods in respect. Jango knows them all. Every face. He knows their names, he knows their families if they have them, and their friends if they don’t. They know him, and through him, they know Ben. As much as anyone can know Ben, that is.

Far from releasing Jango from the anxiety of his presence, Jinn’s departure only doubles down on the gnawing fear that eats away at the back of Jango’s mind. These years haven’t been easy, but they’ve been _good_. The days have been theirs, to live or die in the name of a cause that belongs wholly to the Free. If the _jetii_ come back, _when_ they come back, when they bring their problems and their enemies to Jango’s door, he fears for the future of his new people.

And he fears for Ben, who only wants to help. Who doesn’t understand how to say _no_.

Jango will die for any one of the free, but he won’t die for the _jetii_. And he won’t kill for them, either.

“You’re brooding.” Ben’s voice catches on the breeze, a soft, lilting sound that soothes over the frayed edges of Jango’s nerves and calms him.

“I’m inspecting,” Jango grunts, ignoring the wide-eyed look he’s given from the young sharpshooter on duty on this particular stretch of wall.

“Very thoroughly,” Ben chuckles, then gentles to something painfully kind. “Bala will be alright.”

“I’m not worried about Bala,” Jango says, then wilts a little under the weight of Ben’s gaze. “Fine. I’m a little worried, but-” he says nothing more. Those fears are for in private. He can feel the eyes on them from around the fort and wants to turn and snap, to demand they pay attention to their _posts_ and not him. But it’s Ben they are looking at.

It’s more than likely why Ben is even out here in the first place instead. If he’s supposed to be resting, he’s almost inevitably in the war room, doing exactly the opposite. He should be there now. Instead, he’s here, putting himself at risk yet again because he’s stubbornly incapable of recognizing his own importance.

Ben’s hand curls around his arm and Jango shakes his head as if to dislodge the unfair accusation. Ben might not like the position he’s in, or seek to increase his power, but he’s not oblivious to it. Just the opposite.

They’ve been attacked, whether directly or not, and their people need to see him. They need to know he’s safe, yes, but that he’s also _there_ , ready to protect them and their freedom as he has done in the past.

Jango laces their fingers together and rubs his thumb over the gentle rise of Ben’s knuckles.

“The Council will meet tonight to discuss our options,” Ben tells him, letting himself be pulled against Jango’s side.

“What options? We see someone coming, we light a cannon up their ass.”

The kid on duty snorts loudly, then turns pink in mortification.

“Please,” Ben sighs dramatically, “don’t encourage him.”

“You’ll burn,” Jango warns him, changing the topic abruptly, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to see Ben smile.

“I’m not going to burn.”

“You’ll burn. Like the delicate city flower that you are.” The light punch to his side is deserved and makes him smile all the more for it.

“I will freckle,” Ben says crossly, his lips curling at the edges. “I’ve been living on this ridiculous planet long enough to not combust the second I see the sun.”

He will burn though, especially if he’s outside for more than ten minutes. The tip of his nose is already glowing. Jango’s seen him through some of the most horrific sunburns in the last few years and has no desire to repeat the process.

“Don’t say I didn’t-” he reaches up to touch the end of Ben’s nose, his finger almost making contact when a breathless scout trips over his own feet and deposits himself on the ground in front of them.

“Careful now,” Ben teases, removing himself from Jango’s embrace to help the clumsy idiot back to his feet.

“Sorry, sorry!” The kid looks it, too. Kriff, there are too many children in Jango’s life. “Kel said to get you at once! There’s a man here who wants to see you. He says he has information about the attack.”

“No,” Jango says, immediately grabbing Ben’s elbow and drawing him back before he can start in the direction of the stairs. “I’ll speak to him first. You’re staying here.”

“Don’t fuss,” Ben grumbles, ducking neatly out of Jango’s grasp.

“I’m not fussing!”

“You’re absolutely fussing. It’s very endearing and wholly unnecessary.”

“I am not endearing. And I’m not fussing! Shmi fusses, I worry.”

“Well stop worrying, then.” Somehow Ben is already on the stairs, calling back over his shoulder to Jango, who would have no hesitation stunning him if not for the fact that his kriffing heart might stop thanks to the Spice.

Jinn's sudden arrival has knocked Ben off-balance, Jango can see as much. He’s not usually this reckless. Another thing to shoot the old _jetii_ for if they ever cross paths again.

In the same anteroom they put all uninvited guests, a tall man with long black locks waits patiently for their arrival.

He’s under guard, and Jango is pleased to see his men have taken extra precautions and doubled their numbers.

He’s less pleased when Ben dismisses them all.

The distinct facial tattoos of a Kiffar male in his prime make the newcomer unusual, but not unique. Mos Espa has been a hive of activity for the galaxy’s more unsavory sorts long before their arrival on Tatooine and it’s unlikely to change any time soon, despite the regime change. The Free enforce laws as strictly as the Hutts, but in very different ways. Ben has lines he will not cross, and far more of them than Jango does. It’s easy to see this dark-eyed stranger as someone capable of walking on either side of them.

“Quin?”

Ben’s voice startles Jango out of his contemplations.

But if Jango is surprised by the sound of his voice, that’s nothing compared to the stranger. The bland, almost casual arrogance of his expression slips from his face, leaving him ashy and pained. “Obi-Wan?”

Kriffing hells, another _jetii_?

The use of his old name doesn’t make Ben flinch the way it often does. Instead, he steps closer and beams, his whole face bright with a joy Jango rarely gets to see in him. “Quinlan Vos... are you the Spice runner the Haxion Brood is so upset with?” He looks delighted by the prospect. If Vos is the man who’s kept the Brood occupied these last few months - and as a result, less of a headache for Jango - then he’s a welcome guest, but...

But Vos looks close to tears, his head moving from side to side in denial. “I didn’t know... I _swear_ I didn’t know.”

Without further hesitation, Ben closes the space between them and embraces Vos tightly.

It’s a considerably more enthusiastic and friendly greeting than Jinn got, which suggests that Vos is - or was, at least - an old friend. Jango’d like to say that a friend of Ben’s is a friend of his, but since most of Ben’s friends from his days before his capture are all most likely _jetii_...

Not that Vos is a picture of that famous resolve now. Unlike Ben, he is almost trembling with emotion, one large hand curled protectively around the back of Ben’s head, the other fisted tightly in his robes.

“All this time,” Vos chokes, “and you were _here_.”

Gently, Ben untangles them both and places his hands carefully over the black leather of his gloves. “How long have you been on Tatooine?”

And how many other kriffing _jetii_ are there on the planet, that’s what Jango wants to know.

Vos shakes his head again. “Only a few cycles this time. Most of my work is in this sector and it’s a good place to refuel, especially now the Hutts have retreated. Which, I guess is your doing. Kriff, Obi, how are you here?”

Ben smiles over at Jango. “You can thank Jango for the Hutts,” he says, sidestepping the significant part he played in the uprising and the small matter of inspiring a million people to take up arms. “As for the rest, well, it’s... a long story.”

Vos bows his head respectfully and reluctantly lets Ben step out of his arms. “I’ve heard much about you, Jango Fett,” he says, sounding like a proper _jetii_ now, even if he still looks like a scruffy criminal.

Jango has already had to deal with one _jetii_ upsetting Ben this week and isn’t about to allow another the same opportunity. Even if he’s here for very different reasons. Perhaps even because of that. He doesn’t believe in coincidence.

“You’ve heard of me,” Jango says evenly, “but not Ben?” He catches the tiny twitch of Ben’s mouth and the way his lips thin in displeasure. It’s a microexpression, one Vos misses, and for all that it is a clear display of his displeasure, Jango is _pleased_ to see it. Ben won’t call Jango out on his behavior in public, not unless lives are at stake, and the united front they form is as unshaken as ever, despite the reappearance of the _jetii_ into their lives.

“I’ve heard of Ben,” Vos says, his accent catching on Ben’s name in a way that sounds very pointed, “but few outside your people have seen him. You keep him locked up tight.” Vos’s tone is light enough, pleasant enough, but his dark eyes are focused and challenging.

“You,” Ben says to Vos dryly, “are just as much of an ass as you were when we were children.” The smirk that starts to form behind Jango’s bucket doesn’t make it past the edges of his lips. “And you,” Ben says, narrowing his eyes and scowling at the both of them, “are still not allowed to kill our guests.”

“He’s not a guest,” Jango grunts.

“Apparently I am,” Vos smirks.

“Right,” Ben huffs, “let’s try again: Quin, it is wonderful to see you, old friend. Please allow me to introduce you to my partner, Jango Fett. Jango, Quinlan and I were initiates together at the Temple.”

“Different creche,” Vos adds, his sharp gaze now focused on Ben. “I was a few years ahead.” He pauses, then swallows. “Force, Obi-Wan...”

“It’s Ben now,” he says softly, a glance at Vos’s gloved hands giving a meaning to the words that Vos seems to understand.

Nodding slowly, Vos continues to drink in the sight of him. “Does anyone know? That you’re here? Force, Bant’s gonna cry for a week.”

Something wistful washes over Ben’s face. “How is she?”

“As gentle as ever,” Vos chuckles. “She misses you a lot. We all did. Even Bruck-”

“Chun?” Ben startles. “Bruck Chun misses me?” At Jango’s confused head-tilt, he elaborates. “Bruck and I were... I suppose you’d call us rivals.” More of that wistfulness, but sadder now. Jango thinks of him at thirteen, at a time when a childhood rival comprised the entirety of the conflict in his world. “He’s a Knight now, I suppose?”

“Still a Padawan, but probably not for much longer. Garen was Knighted last month.” Vos is noticeably softer. If Ben were still a _jetii_ , would he be a Knight? Jango can’t think why not. It’s not hard at all to imagine him in those awful robes, standing at Vos’s side.

Jango hates himself for being glad that Ben is here with _him_.

“We looked for you,” Vos continues, his voice low. “We never stopped. It’s why I asked for this assignment. Siri, too, and I know Garen is headed for the Outer Rim as soon as he’s cleared for duty.” He’s earnest, eager, hopeful in a way Jinn wasn’t.

Ben shakes his head in pained bewilderment. “Why?”

Jango understands, though he doubts Vos will. He presses closer and lets his hand rest soothingly on the curve of Ben's back. He expects Vos to be hostile, or at least suspicious, but if he’s either, he hides it well.

“Why did we look for you? Why haven’t we stopped?”

“Either,” Ben says, his voice catching. “Both?”

“Would you’ve stopped looking for us?”

“I left the Order,” Ben says hopelessly.

“That’s not how I heard it,” Vos says darkly, “but even then. You wouldn’t’ve stopped. How could we do any less for you?”

“But the Council-” It takes Jango a second to realize Ben is talking about the _jetiise_ Council and not their own.

“Authorized every single mission. Even Jinn’s. Especially when we found out who took you.”

Ben surprises them both by letting out a sudden bark of laughter. “Well, you know more than I do about that.”

“You don’t know who took you?” Jango asks, surprised. They don’t _talk_ about this. They know the facts, not the details. Jango respects Ben’s right to his past as much as Ben respects his, and some memories are simply too painful to retell, even to someone you love.

“I know slavers made frequent assaults on the cities outside of the Capital,” Ben says slowly, his expression pinched. “We were in the process of trying to set up a task force to address the issue.”

“On Melida/Daan,” Vos clarifies. “Governor Neild confirmed as much.”

Another name from the past, and another flinch, this time poorly hidden. “They’re part of the Republic, now,” Vos says. “Your friend Cerasi is Senator. She’s been leading the Republic’s Anti-Slavery initiative for the past three years.”

A shudder races down Ben’s back. Jango, not caring for appearances, or how stubborn Ben can be, leads him to the side of the room and pushes him down onto one of the long benches that circle it.

“I didn’t know it was her,” he says slowly. “I’ve...politely declined a number of requests for meetings.”

Vos snorts. “If she knew it was you, you’d’ve had half the Republic on your doorstep years ago.”

It’s clear that Vos and all the baggage he’s brought with him are equally, if not more distressing to Ben than Jinn’s appearance. The last few days have delivered more emotional blows than Ben has had to shoulder for some time, and off that back of his latest seizure, Jango is worried.

But there’s still a question that’s not been answered. One he’d not known was even important until now.

“You know who took him? It wasn’t slavers?”

He can’t imagine a situation _worse_ than slavers, but knowing their luck?

“Oh, it was slavers alright,” Vos says grimly, “but they had help. You really don’t remember?”

Ben shakes his head, his gaze unfocused. “I remember scouting the outskirts, then nothing until Zola.”

Jango’s lip curls into an unconscious snarl. He expression is hidden by his armor, but the low sound of rage is not. Ben reaches up and clasps his wrist tightly, anchoring him to the present.

Zola is dead. He’s so dead there isn’t even room for doubt.

Even with his _beskar_ , Jango suddenly feels cold.

Vos seems to be smart enough to know not to ask.

“Who helped them?” Jango demands, forcing himself to focus on something tangible and real and, hopefully, still with a spine he can rip out.

Vos’s expression is grim. And surprisingly guilty. “Xanatos du Crion,” he says.

Ben is still and silent for a long time before finally saying, “Well Qui-Gon forgot to mention _that.”_

 _“_ You’ve seen Jinn?” Vos asks in surprise. “When? Why the kriffing hells didn’t he tell us he found you?”

“Yesterday,” Jango says, filling in the silence when Ben fails to answer, still lost in thought. “He left this morning after his ship was attacked by a-”

Vos straightens abruptly before breaking off into a string of curses that finally draw Ben from his troubled focus. “That’s why I am here. I’ve been tracking a Dark presence in the Force. Bastard’s led me on a merry chase, but I heard about the attack on your people. Thought I’d stay the night and make sure he didn’t try again.”

“Thank you, Quin,” Ben says quietly. “Your help is appreciated, but I don’t want to take you away from your mission.”

“I need to check in with the Council, but if you think I’m going back to Yoda and telling him I let you outta my sight...”

“ _Master_ Yoda,” Ben says firmly, missing the anger that races through Jango’s heart, “will want you to complete your mission.”

“Kriff, Kenobi, you might be taller now, but you’re still just as stupid. _You’re_ my damn mission.” Vos says with an emphatic flail of hands. He waits a beat, but no longer, before pulling Ben up from the bench and back into his arms. "I can't believe I found you."

Jango’s wrist slips from Ben’s grasp as he reaches up to return Vos’s embrace, surprising all of them when he rests his head against a broad shoulder. Jango only has a second to mourn the loss of contact before Ben is reaching for his hand again. Tears gleam in his eyes as he turns his face to Jango, but he’s smiling, clinging as tight to Vos as Vos is to him.

It’s a smile that’s not meant for Jango, and an embrace he’s not supposed to be part of. For all that Jango was wary of Jinn and his intentions, he can’t say the same for Vos. Vos didn’t abandon Ben all those years ago. By all accounts, he’s spent his life _looking_ for him. Jango can’t hate him for that. No, if anything, he respects it. And he’s thankful for it.

Cold, and angry, and thankful.

He catches Ben’s fingers, squeezes them gently, then steps away.

He has work to do, and right now, Ben doesn’t need him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're uncovering a few more details from Ben's past. It's going to get pretty angsty as we dig deeper. And by angsty I mean really damn dark. 
> 
> I'm posting this a few hours before I have a really important interview in the desperate hope that I will have your angry screams to distract me from stressing about it once it's done :D

In another life, Ben used to sneak out of his dorm and into Quin’s, summoned by the pulse of anguish bleeding into the Force, his friend so overwhelmed by the sensations of his psychometry that restlessness and nightmares often collided in a miserable cycle. During the days, Quin was always loud and boisterous and intimidating, but at night he shrank smaller, quieter. Ben would pull on his tunic, make sure his arms were well covered, then crawl onto Quin’s cot and wrap himself around the older boy’s back.

Nothing was ever said, not by Quin and not by their creche masters, and, eventually, he learned how to better control his abilities. It was so long ago, but from the tight way Quin holds him now, neither of them have forgotten it.

Ben doesn’t consider himself a tactile person - excluding Jango - but he can’t deny the comfort he feels when soaking in the strength and peace that Quin offers him. Unlike Qui-Gon, it’s easy to accept Quin’s presence, his feelings for his friend uncomplicated and free from hurt. Quin can be an ass and he has - or had - the habit of putting his foot in his mouth more often than not, but he’s always been kind to Ben. Teased him relentlessly, but always without malice.

Now he runs a hand over the back of Ben’s head, finally breaking their embrace in order to study him with the sharp, knowing eyes of a man who has spent more than a few years in the field. Quin has the ability to know more than he could ever want to know with just a touch, but his gloved fingers do little more than hold Ben still for inspection.

“You’re sick,” he says, finally. “No...that’s not it. You’re...” lines pull tight around his eyes as he no doubt connects the dots between Ben’s less than healthy appearance, his pitiful Force signature, and the world in which Quin is a part of. “How long have you been using?” There’s no judgement in his voice. Sadness, perhaps, and worry, but no judgement.

“Would you believe me if I say it’s not what you think?” Ben asks, fighting the urge to duck his head and shy away from the intensity of Quin’s gaze. He’s got thirteen years of deference to his elders and superiors with the Jedi and another ten of having the shit kicked out of him for daring to look at his supposed betters. Eye contact is a choice now, not a habit.

“Go on,” Quin encourages. He lets Ben return to the bench, then sits beside him, quiet and patient.

“I don’t even know where to start,” Ben admits. “I told you I don’t remember how I was taken, but the truth is that I don’t remember a lot of things.”

“They drugged you?”

“Not with Spice,” Ben says, though in truth he’s not sure. Zola might’ve, especially in those early, indefinable days. He shivers, unwillingly walking cold stone hallways in his mind, only dimly aware of his bare feet brushing the ground, hands on his arms and the heavy, choking weight of that first collar around his neck. A doorway looms before him, dark and foreboding, the door sliding open to reveal the gaping void beyond —

“Hey,” the tips of Quin’s fingers brush his arm, drawing him back to the warmth and bright colors of the fort.

“Forgive me,” Ben chuckles weakly.

“I’m the one gatecrashing your day,” Quin flashes him an encouraging - and kind - little grin. “You just felt cold.”

Ben’s stopped wondering what he feels like in the Force. He can’t even remember what it feels like to touch it the way he once did, to let himself drift in the Light and be infused by its warmth. The only memory that remains is one of his own darkness polluting something he no longer has any right to seek out. He’s closed himself off by choice, but he doesn’t know if that’s how it looks to Quin.

“Is this how you imagined you’d find me?” Ben finds himself asking, hopelessly curious as to the answer. That Quin looked for him at all - that he’s apparently _still_ looking, over a decade later, that his old friends even think of him still - is a roadblock in his mind, one he doesn’t yet know how to circumvent. It’s enough to know Qui-Gon has looked for him; this is more than he’s ever dared to dream of.

Which doesn’t explain why he feels so heavy with guilt. Quin’s never been good at following the rules, but he’s gifted in ways far beyond Ben’s comprehension. And Siri, a year younger but ahead of him in every class, so bright and focused, clearly destined for great things. That they’ve wasted all this time on _him_...

“Honestly? We imagined all kinds of things,” Quin admits grimly. He rests his elbows on his thighs and leans forward until the long lengths of his hair fall over his shoulders. Ben remembers a time when his own hair was longer, and when Jango would run his fingers through it in wonder; a moment stolen under watchful eyes. “You’d been missing for a whole year before it was made official. We knew Jinn came back from his mission without you and we’d been planning ways to get a message to you - to tell you that we were still your friends, even if you’d chosen another path.”

For all that it baffles him, Ben can see the truth of it. His friends are truly some of the kindest, most caring people in the Order.

“How did you even find out?” He can’t imagine Qui-Gon suddenly changing his mind and going back to collect him from Melida/Daan.

“After you were taken, your friends contacted the Temple for help. They sent Jinn, Siri, and her Master Adi Galia. du Crion sent Jinn a holo. I never saw it,” Quin explains quickly, catching on to the unspoken mortification as Ben’s blank memories try and shape themselves into an idea of just _what_ Xanatos might’ve shown them. “Siri did, but she’d never talk about it.” He breaks off as if somehow her silence is worse than knowing, then shakes himself sharply. “He’s dead. du Crion.”

Ben’s heart aches. “Did Qui-Gon...?”

“Windu, actually,” Quin shrugs one of his shoulders. “It was a mess. Bruck’s father got involved, the Senate got involved, the courts... your face was everywhere for a year.”

“I didn’t...” he pauses and frowns. “Zola, he... I didn’t get out much. People came to him. Including Senators. He was well connected.” There’s a reason he’s warned Padmé to be cautious. How many of the people involved in the fallout of Xanatos’s actions knew exactly where he was? It wasn’t as if Zola was shy about Ben’s true identity.

Quin swears softly. “Maybe that’s why we couldn’t find you... kriffing hells, those _bastards_.” Even without the Force to guide him, Ben can feel the waves of anger rolling off his friend.

“We don’t know that,” Ben tries to soothe him.

A rough snort makes it clear exactly what Quin thinks. “I know the Council refused to believe you were dead,” he says angrily. “I know they changed the way Master/Padawan teams operate in the field because of what happened. I know we held a vigil for you every year. I know...” he shudders, shakes himself, and looks at Ben with sad eyes. “I know that we failed you.”

“How did you _fail_ me,” Ben exclaims. He’s too caught up in Quin’s quiet self-hatred to push for more information on just _how_ the Council changed operations, but Force...

“Three years,” he chokes. “You've been free for three years, and you never tried to come home?”

“I _left_ the Jedi.”

“You were abandoned! The Temple’s your home! We’re your family! And maybe you thought about coming home, maybe you didn’t, but we should’ve been there for you. We should’ve found you.”

Did he dream about a rescue? Of course he did. In the early days. He dreamed of Qui-Gon coming back for him, of a whole fleet of Knights falling on Zola’s compound... any possible scenario in which someone came for him and took him back to the Temple. Those dreams didn’t last long.

“I’m not a Jedi,” Ben says gently. “Whatever I was, I can never be again. Maybe, if I’d been alone, if it’d just been me...”

Quin doesn’t look like he believes him and he’s probably right not to. If he’d been alone, he’d never have escaped in the first place. He probably wouldn’t have survived at all.

“The things I did to escape-”

“No one would blame you for,” Quin cuts in firmly. Even Ben believes that. He did what he had to. But it’s important Quin understands that he’s not Obi-Wan Kenobi. He’s not the Jedi, or the boy who dreamed of being a Knight.

“I killed a lot of people, Quin. Not because I had to, or because I even wanted to. I just could, so I did. Every sentient being on that moon... if they were armed. Every one of them. And when the dust settled a thousand souls looked at me for the stability I’d robbed them of.” He reaches up and rubs a hand over his tired eyes. There’s not a part of him that doesn’t ache. His bones feel like they’re fused into stone, heavy and ungainly and still somehow fragile. This would be where he leans into Jango and trusts his strength, but Jango has left to do the work Ben is neglecting in his desire to soak up the presence of his friend. “I used to think it would be enough to just free slaves, but it’s not.”

“I saw what you did,” Quin says, surprising him. He jerks, horrified, and leans away. “On Jaguada's moon? I’m a Shadow,” Quin says, his lip quirking in an unhappy smile. “And I was in the area. That kind of activity attracts attention. I felt the evil there. It’s the same evil I tracked here.”

Ben’s on his feet before he knows he’s moving, tense and wary, a hand held up for distance.

Quin grabs his wrist and pulls him back sharply, and the anger that lurks in the muddy depths of Ben’s soul rolls and rises from below the smothering blanket of Spice. It’s been hours since his last dose. Long enough for him to find _something_ if he needs to. Long enough for him to put space between his people and this new threat, to force Quin to _stop_ _touching him_ -

“Hey, hey, no!” Quin lets go of Ben’s wrists and holds both hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry, that was stupid. That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m not evil?” Ben asks, an undercurrent of mocking in his voice that’s followed instantly by the hum of a weapon powering up for a shot. Of course Jango’t not truly left him alone.

The sudden wariness in Quin’s gaze makes it clear he’s aware of the new, decidedly unhappy presence, but his posture remains soft and calm. “You’re about as far from evil as you can get. The presence that lingered on that moon was dark and painful and _heavy_ , and it’s here, on Tatooine, but it’s not you. You feel exactly the same way you used to feel when you crawled into my bed and held me because the world was so dark and so scary and I couldn’t find my way through everyone else’s feelings. You feel like the boy we all turned to when we were upset. And you feel... you feel hurt. Badly. You feel the way we all feared you would feel. But you don’t feel like _that_.”

The broken honesty in his voice cuts through the fog of fear that has risen to cloud Ben’s vision. He drops his hand, horrified by how close he’s come to losing control, and by how _easy_ it feels.

“I-”

Jango steps out of the shadows, armed and radiating menace. “Then he’s here,” he says. “And not for Jinn.”

Burning yellow eyes swim before Ben’s vision. A Zabrack. Anakin said as much. Ben should feel it. He should know.

“Tell me about him,” Quin demands. “When he was on Jaguada's moon with you. What do you remember?”

Ben’s hand drifts up to his throat. “He...” but so much of that day is a blur. He remembers the aftermath, remembers Jango, remembers the blood...

“He removed your collar,” Jango says. He lowers his weapon and puts his arm around Ben’s back, a solid wall of strength that Ben immediately leans into.

“It was a Force Inhibitor?” Quin frowns.

Jango answers for him. “Yes. They never took it off, not while he was conscious. He was a visitor, said he came on behalf of a Lord Sideous. He set us _free_.”

“I thought I’d killed him,” Ben whispers. “I thought - why would he help us? Why would he attack our people?”

“I don’t know,” Quin admits, “but this changes things.” He’s already reaching into his pocket when Jango tenses, anticipating an attack. “I don’t believe in coincidence. You’re in danger.”

He pulls out his comm.

“I’m not leaving Tatooine,” Ben says stubbornly, already seeing the paths Quin’s mind is trending and dizzily trying to dig in his heels. “I’m not leaving my people!”

“Never said anything about leaving,” Quin says grimly. “But I don’t think it’s a coincidence that he’s here _now,_ so if its all the same to you, I’m calling in the cavalry.”

“Cavalry?” Jango whispers in Ben’s ear. His arms are so warm and it’s all Ben can do not to turn his face to Jango’s chest and let the world fade away. His vision hasn’t stopped swimming after that spike of fear and the nausea in his gut rolls with ever-increasing violence.

He’s so kriffing _tired_.

Jango’s hand curls under his chin and carefully cups his cheek. “Ben?” The worry in his voice is thick, an edge of panic hiding below that carefully constructed, gruff exterior. He has to be so in control, so in command, all because Ben forces him to shoulder the weight of both their trauma. “Look at me, come on, focus on my voice.”

 _I am,_ Ben tries to say. He’ll know Jango’s voice at the end of time and space. He’ll always know it, will always come back to it.

Instead, all he manages to do is curl his fingers around the edges of Jango’s bracers, lean forward and whisper.

“He’s here.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR WARNINGS: This scene is about as explicit as it is going to get when it comes to Jango and Ben's formative years. It's brutal and cruel and includes both torture and the implied torture of children. There is an ongoing theme of suicidal ideation in this chapter, as well as references to abuse. While it is a thematically important scene for setting up future chapters, you ABSOLUTELY CAN SKIP to the line break, assume terrible things happened, and focus on how epically pissed off Ben is instead. 
> 
> Please also note that I have used dates after the Ruusan Reformation, but since most of us are more familiar with the BBY system, I've added those for context. Obviously, BBY is a few years off...

**Year 956 (44 BBY)**

By this point, Jango has lost track of the number of times he’s tried to escape. The results are always the same: he reaches the edge of the compound, the collar around his neck incapacitating but failing to kill him, and the guards he’s humiliated with his efforts taking a vindictive amount of pleasure in beating him into submission.

In many ways, they’re worse than the ‘training and rehabilitation’ he’s forced to endure at the hands of his new ‘owner’. Jango is Mando’ad: he understands what it is to unmake someone and remold them into something else. This may be a perversion of everything he knows, but he does understand the process. The stress, the cold, the sleep deprivation, and humiliation are all carefully designed to break his spirit. To make him _less_. It’s cruel but impassive torture. Detached. A system of control.

The guards are mere beasts, delighting in every way they can enforce their dominance and authority over the helpless. Jango is a favorite of theirs. The idea of forcing the true Mand’alor to heel is more than any of them can resist.

Even knowing that, Jango doesn’t care. There’s nothing they can do to his body that is a greater shame than that which he would bring upon himself by giving in and submitting to the collar that’s been forced on him.

And they have tried. If there is a torment they can concoct, it has been inflicted upon him. Jango wears his hatred like a cloak and hides his mind away from them.

It will be the same this time, he thinks, but instead of dragging his shuddering body towards the barracks, they bring him before Zola himself.

Maybe this is the time they kill him. The idea is a comfort. Let him die today, unbroken and defiant, instead of as an old man stripped of every fiber of his honor and self-respect.

The shock collar he wears is a brutally effective tool. There’s no resisting it, no enduring its power. Electricity hits him with such intensity his muscles spasm and lock. Movement under his own power is impossible and will be for hours. Enough time for the guards to have their amusement with him before he becomes dangerous once more.

That doesn’t stop them from fastening the front of the collar to a chain dangling from the ceiling in the middle of Zola’s grand entertainment area. Jango is just tall enough for his feet to touch the ground, but the effort of keeping himself upright and balanced while his arms and legs still shudder and tremble weakly is all-consuming.

“I knew you would be a handful,” Zola chuckles, approaching him with the languid serenity of a man who has no fear of the killer in chains before him. “A fine prize for my collection, but so much work.” He reaches up and brushes the sweat-soaked hair from Jango’s face. The length of it is all he really has to indicate just how long he’s been here. Months now, not weeks. Jango is too weak and too exhausted to snap his teeth at the hand on his skin, but oh, how he wants to.

“One of these days, they will kill you,” Zola warns, nodding his chin at the cluster of guards that ring the room. “I’ll have to punish them, but you’ll push them over the edge... that’s what you want, isn’t it? To die.”

Jango doesn’t answer. It’s what he wants. What he deserves.

Zola sighs and shakes his head as though he is a disappointed parent. “What are we up to now? A hundred lashes? Nowhere near enough to kill you. Not yet.” He studies Jango’s emaciated body. They’ll give him clothes when he ‘earns them’, when he’s graduated from the training program and a good, mindless, broken little drone. Until then every sharp line of bone and every wasted muscle is on show for them to see.

“I have a proposal for you, Jango,” Zola says, using his name for the first time. Jango jerks, trying to remember the last time he heard it spoken allowed in a voice not his own. “A deal, if you will. A hundred lashes now, and the promise to kill you the next time you attempt to escape, or....” his easy smile grows wider. “Or you live, and I give you something better than death.”

It hurts to swallow beneath the collar. Jango clings to the chain it’s attached to and tries to give himself just a little more space to breathe. Men like Zola don’t give anything away. And they don’t make deals with slaves. Awkwardly, Jango tries to spit at him.

Zola moves closer. “Oh, you’ll want to take this. You see, I have a new acquisition. Fresh off the deck. A prize even more valuable than you. A _Jedi.”_

Jango’s vision blacks over. With that one hateful word, he’s back in a place even worse than this, the air ripe with the smell of burnt flesh and spilt blood. The sound that escapes him is one of pure, anguished loathing. The _jetiise_ took _everything_ from him and didn’t even give him the mercy of death. It’s because of them that his people are dead. It’s because of them that his _buir_ is rotting in the dirt, his throne empty and beloved Mandalore at the mercy of imposters and usurpers.

It’s because of them that Jango suffers, day after day after day.

“I thought you might like that,” Zola smiles. “Chose to live, and I will give you your revenge. Twice your punishment, and my promise that the attention my loyal guards pay you will be...redirected for a time.”

Live, he says. As though he has any kind of say in _making him_. The thought of a _jetii_ knowing just a fracture of his humiliation and pain is too much to resist, and the chance to die _after_ he’s seen it will always find a way to present itself. He nods as best he can.

Zola winks. Nods his head. A deal struck. Jango can’t bring himself to hate that commonality, not if he gets to see even one _jetii_ bleed.

At a wave of his hand, the large doors at the end of the room slide open. Two more guards step inside, a small, limp figure dragged between them.

They dump a child at Jango’s feet. Step back and smile. Jango knows he’s lost.

He wants to see a _jetii_ suffer. A _Knight._ A _Master._ Not... kriffing hells, not _this._ The boy can’t be more than a year into his teens. Too young to have even fought at Galidraan. Far too young to have taken a life. The thick collar that hangs around his neck looks like it weighs more than he does, and the heavy chains are obscene around his skinny wrists and ankles.

“No,” Jango growls. “Tha-” The jolt of power through his collar is blinding. It closes his throat and sends sparks of colors dancing across his vision.

“This is Jango,” Zola says, his voice soothing and low as he helps the boy up onto unsteady feet and holds him upright with an arm around his shoulders. “Jedi killed his whole family. And he’d like to see one suffer.”

The boy - Obi-Wan - looks sick. Either he’s drugged to the eyeballs, or there’s something in the collar. He can barely stand, and he struggles to focus his gaze on Jango, even when Zola directs him with a hand under his chin.

Jango tries to find his voice. Tries to tell Zola where he can put his lies. Zola only flashes Jango a malicious smile over the boy’s shoulder.

“Jango and I made a deal: you endure his punishment.” Obi-Wan blinks slowly, the words having little impact. “Two hundred lashes with the vibrowhip. It won’t kill you-” It might. Gods, it might. Vibrowhips don’t break the skin by design, but that _many.._. the shock alone could be deadly. “But you’ll wish it would. It’s not fair, I know. It’s your first day here, and it’s a lot. Say the word, and I’ll give him _three hundred_ lashes and let you off with just half. That’s fair, right?”

“I’ll-” Jango starts to say he’ll take it, every last kriffing stroke, and he’ll thank the shleb for each and every one before he allows a _child_ to suffer. _Jetii_ or not, Jango swore an oath to protect _all_ children. He spits the first word out, sticky and thick against his swollen throat, but the rest of his argument is muffled by the rough leather edge of one of the guard’s belts as it’s forced between his teeth. The guard, one of the ones how rejoyces the most in Jango's pain, winks at him before stepping away.

Next to Zola, Obi-Wan starts to shake his head. “No,” he says slowly, the effort clearly more than he can easily manage. “I can take it. Don’t hurt him.”

Zola doesn’t hesitate in handing the boy off to the guards. “You heard him.” There’s no doubt in Jango’s mind that Zola has known right from the very start how this would play out. Not when Obi-Wan is positioned perfectly to give Jango the unrestricted view he claimed to want. “Hate is such a terrible, terrible thing,” he whispers mockingly to Jango, who snarls and struggles against his bonds. “You can’t escape it, and you can’t escape me. Watch what your hatred has wrought, and know that every time you even fantasize about defying me, I will tear him apart in your name. Jedi are such durable creatures after all. Even the little ones.”

Jango lets go of the chain holding him up and lets himself choke, reaching for Zola with every intention of breaking the shleb’s kriffing neck.

Zola dances back, laughing. “I knew I’d break you eventually, Mando. I always do. Now, enjoy your revenge.”

It doesn’t take long for them to make Obi-Wan scream, and it takes even less for Jango to give up on his dreams of death.

He doesn’t deserve it.

* * *

**Year 968 (32 BBY)**

Jango jerks away from Vos as the man lays a friendly hand on his shoulder. Vos blanches, stumbles, and embarrassed by the violence of his response, Jango reaches out to steady him. Instead, Ben puts himself between them, his hand extended towards Vos in warning, and his eyes flashing with fury.

“Do that again and I will forget that you are my oldest friend.” It’s been _years_ since he’s heard Ben sounding that angry.

Feeling awkward, Jango attempts to reassure him. “It’s fine, it was an accident.”

Vos looks sick as he shakes his head. “No, forgive me.” He hastily refastens the straps of his gloves.

“If you stay,” Ben growls, “you stay to protect _all_ of my people.”

“With my life,” Vos vows, his words hoarse.

Jango is missing something here. _Jetii_ banthakark. But whatever it is, Ben is furious and he steps in closer to Jango, anger bringing life and strength back to his tired face.

Good, Jango thinks. The angrier Ben is, the stronger he is, and if they are to face the creature who set all this in motion, they’re going to need all the firepower they can get.


End file.
